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JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN. 

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“ This  is  a very  good  and  a very  interesting  work.  It  is  designed  to  trace  the 
career  from  boyhood  to  age  of  a perfect  man,  a Christian  gentleman  ; and 
it  abounds  in  incident,  both  well  and  highly  wrought.  Throughout  it  is 
conceived  in  a high  spirit,  and  written  with  great  ability — better  than  any 
former  work,  we  think,  of  its  deservedly  successful  author.  There  is  much 
delicate  pathos,  there  are  charming  touches  of  nature  scattered  about.  The 
picture  of  the  two  friends  in  youth,  the  manly  and  strong  John  Halifax,  the 
wealthy  Phineas,  is  new  in  many  of  its  features,  and  not  only  new  but 
beautiful.  * 5 — Examiner. 

“ ‘John  Halifax’  is  more  than  worthy  of  the  author’s  reputation.  We 
consider,  indeed,  that  it  is  her  best  work.  There  are  in  it  many  passages 
of  beautiful  writing.  The  closing  scenes  are  deeply  pathetic,  and  few  will 
lay  down  the  book  without  tearful  eyes.  ‘John  Halifax’  is  a picture, 
drawn  with  a masterly  hand,  of  one  of  nature’s  gentlemen.  Everybody 
who  ever  reads  a novel  should  read  this  one.” — Critic. 

“John  Halifax,  the  hero  of  these  most  beautiful  pages,  is  no  ordinary 
hero,  and  this  his  history  is  no  ordinary  book.  It  is  a full-length  portrait 
of  a true  gentleman,  one  of  nature’s  own  nobility.  It  is  the  story  of  a man 
full  of  all  manly  and  noble  qualities,  occupying  the  whole  sphere  of  life— as 
a servant  and  as  a master,  as  a lover  and  a husband,  as  a father  and  a friend, 
fulfilling  with  true  worthiness  the  duties  of  every  domestic  and  social  rela- 
tion. It  is  also  the  history  of  a home,  and  a thoroughly  English  one.  The 
work  abounds  in  incident,  and  many  of  the  separate  scenes  are  full  of  gra- 
phic power  and  true  pathos.  It  is  a book  that  few  will  read  without  be- 
coming wiser  and  better.” — Scotsman. 

“The  story  is  very  interesting.  The  attachment  between  John  Halifax 
and  his  wife  is  beautifully  painted,  as  are  the  pictures  of  their  domestic  life, 
and  the  growing  up  of  their  children,  and  the  conclusion  of  the  book  is  beau- 
tiful and  touching.” — Athenaeum. 

“ John  Halifax  is  one  of  the  noblest  stories  among  modern  works  of 
fiction.  The  interest  of  the  story  is  enthralling,  the  characters  admirably 
sustained,  and  the  moral  excellent.” — Press. 

“In  ‘ John  Halifax  ’ every  character  is  consistently  conceived  and  very 
truthfully  delineated.  The  incidents,  the  scenes,  the  ‘ still  life,*  are  painted 
with  a power  that  sustains  the  attention  of  the  reader.” — Spectator. 

“If  the  delineation  of  the  grand  in  character,  the  glorious  in  action,  the 
tender  in  feeling,  the  pure  in  heart,  can  bestow  eminence  on  a production, 
this  work  must  take  its  place  among  the  standard  and  the  excellent.” — Suru 

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A WOMAN’S  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  WOMEN. 

By  the  Author  of  “JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN.” 

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HURST  AND  BLACKETT’S  STANDARD  LIBRARY. 

“ A book  of  sound  counsel.  It  is  one  of  the  most  sensible  works  of  its  kind, 
well  written,  true  hearted,  and  altogether  practical.  Whoever  wishes  to  give  ad- 
vice to  a young  lady  in  the  form  of  a Christmas-box  may  thank  the  author  for 
means  of  doing  so.” — Examiner. 

“ The  author  of 4 J ohn  Halifax  * will  retain  and  extend  her  hold  upon  the  read- 
ing and  reasonable  public  by  the  merits  of  her  present  work,  which  bears  the 
stamp  of  good  sense  and  genial  feeling.  The  basis  of  her  book  is  truth,  but  truth 
spoken  in  a kindly  spirit,  and  in  the  hope  of  mitigating  some  admitted  evils. 
There  can  be  little  novelty  in  a book  which  considers  our  various  relations  to  each 
other — as  masters,  parents,  friends,  and  the  like  ; but  there  is  room,  by  the  way, 
for  much  original  and  acute  remark,  by  which,  though  intended  specially  for  the 
gentler  sex,  the  tougher  half  of  mankind  may  profit.”— The  Guardian. 

“ This  is  a very  excellent  and  thoughtful  work,  by  a writer  who  has  attained  a 
high  degree  of  celebrity,  addressed  chiefly  to  the  single  of  her  own  sex,  offering 
them  reflections  and  suggestions  on  subjects  of  the  greatest  importance.  Her 
book  is  written  in  a frank,  fearless  spirit,  earnest  in  purpose,  and  practical  in 
tone.” — Sun. 

44  These  thoughts  are  good  and  humane.  They  are  thoughts  we  would  wish 
women  to  think : they  are  much  more  to  the  purpose  than  the  treatises  upon  the 
women  and  daughters  of  England  which  were  fashionable  some  years  ago,  and 
these  thoughts  mark  the  progress  of  opinion,  and  indicate  a higher  tone  of 
character  and  a juster  estimate  of  women’s  position.” — Athenceum. 

44  We  recommend  this  work  as  a sensible  and  well-written  review  of  the  true 
position  and  duties  of  women.  There  are  some  exceedingly  valuable  remarks 
upon  female  professions  and  handicrafts.” — The  Critic. 


Now  ready  at  all  the  Libraries,  in  3 vols., 

A LIFE  FOR  A LIFE. 

By  the  Author  of 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman,”  44  A Woman’s  Thoughts  about  Women,”  &c. 


44  We  are  always  glad  to  welcome  Miss  Muloch.  She  writes  from  her  own  convic- 
tions, and  she  has  the  power  not  only  to  conceive  clearly  what  it  is  that  she  wishes 
to  say,  but  to  express  it  in  language  effective  and  vigorous.  In  her  present  work  she 
is  fortunate  in  a good  subject,  and  she  has  produced  a work  of  strong  effect.  The 
reader  having  read  the  book  through  for  the  story,  will  be  apt  (if  he  be  of  our  per- 
suasion) to  return  and  read  again  many  pages  and  passages  with  greater  pleasure 
than  on  a first  perusal.  The  whole  book  .is  replete  with  a graceful,  tender  deli- 
cacy ; and  in  addition  to  its  other  merits,  it  is  written  in  good,  careful  English.”— 
Athenceum. 

44  The  author  of  this  novel  possesses  the  signal  merit  of  being  a progressive 
writer.  4 John  Halifax’  was  a decided  improvement  upon  its  predecessors;  and 
here,  in  4 A Life  for  a Life,’  we  have  again  a marked  advance  upon  4 John  Halifax.’ 
The  book  is  signally  the  best  its  author  has  yet  produced.  The  interest  is  in 
many  parts  intense,  and  is  everywhere  admirably  sustained.  Incident  abounds, 
and  both  dialogue  and  style  are  natural  and  flowing.  Great  delicacy  in  the  de- 
velopment of  character,  and  a subtle  power  of  self-analysis,  are  conspicuous 
in  4 A Life  for  a Life,’  while  the  purity  of  its  religious  views, "and  the  elevation,  the 
grandeur,  indeed,  of  its  dominating  sentiments,  render  its  influences,  in  every 
sense,  healthy  and  invigorating.”—  The  Press. 


HURST  AND  BLACKETT,  PUBLISHERS,  13,  GREAT  MARLBOROUGH  STREET 


POEMS. 


THE  AUTHOR  OE 

“JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN,” 
&c.  &c. 


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in  2016 


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PREFACE. 


Many  of  these  Poems,  extending  over  a period 
of  ten  years,  have  appeared  anonymously  in 
Chambers’  Journal  and  elsewhere.  The  fre- 
quent reprinting  of  them,  here  and  in  America, 
has  induced  the  author  to  collect,  select,  revise, 
and  claim — her  errant  children. 

Whether  they  were  worth  collecting,  and  are 
really  “ Poems/9  public  opinion  must  decide. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOE 

: Philip  my  King  ...  ...  ' ...  1 

Thoughts  in  a Wheat-field  ...  4 

Immutable  ...  ...  ...  ...  8 

■ Pour  Years  ...  ...  ...  ...  12 

The  Dead  Czar  ...  ...  ...  15 

The  Wind  at  Night  ...  ...  ...  19 

A Table  ...  ...  ...  ...  24 

Labour  is  Prayer  ...  ...  ...  27 

A Silly  Song  ...  ...  ...  30 

In  Memoriam  ...  ...  ...  32 

An  Honest  Valentine  ...  ...  ...  35 

Looking  Death  in  the  Pace  ...  ...  40 

By  the  Alma  River  ...  ...  ...  47 

Rothesay  Bay  ...  ...  ...  51 

Living:  after  a Death  ...  ...  ...  54 

In  Our  Boat  ...  ...  ...  58 

The  River  Shore  ...  ...  ...  60 

A Plower  of  a Day  ...  ...  ...  62 

The  Night  Before  the  Mowing  ...  ...  65 


CONTENTS. 


vii 

PAG* 

Passion  Past  ...  ...  ...  67 

October  ...  ...  ...  ...  70 

Moon-struck:  a Fantasy  ...  ...  72 

A Stream’s  Singing  ...  ...  ...  79 

A Eejected  Lover  ...  ...  ...  82 

A Living  Picture  ...  ...  ...  85 

Leonora  ...  ...  ...  ...  89 

Pliglited  ...  ...  ...  ...  94 

Mortality  ...  ...  ...  ...  97 

Life  Eeturning : after  War-time  ...  ...  *99 

My  Friend  ...  ...  ...  ...  102 

A Valentine  ...  ...  ...  ...  106 

Grace  of  Clydeside  ...  ...  ...  110 

To  a Beautiful  Woman  ...  ...  113 

Mary’s  Wedding  ...  ...  ...  117 

Between  Two  Worlds  ...  ...  ...  121 

Cousin  Bobert  ...  ...  ...  125 

At  Last  ...  ...  ...  ...  130 

The  Aurora  on  the  Clyde  ...  ...  133 

An  Aurora  Borealis.  Boslin  Castle  ...  137 

At  the  Linn-side.  Boslin  ...  ...  140 

A Hymn  for  Christmas  Morning  ...  ...  143 

A Psalm  for  New  Year’s  Eve  ...  ...  146 

Faithful  in  Vanity  Fair  ...  ...  149 

Her  Likeness  ...  ...  ...  154 

Only  a Dream  ...  ...  ...  156 

To  my  Godchild  Alice  ...  ...  ...  159 


CONTENTS. 


viii 

SONNETS. 

PAGE 

Resigning  ...  ...  ...  ...  162 

Saint  Elizabeth  of  Bohemia.  I.  and  II.  ...  163 

A Marriage  Table  ...  ...  ...  165 

Michael  the  Archangel.  I.  and  II.  ...  166 

Beatrice  to  Dante  ...  ...  ...  168 

Dante  to  Beatrice  ...  ..  ...  169 

A Question.  I.  and  II.  ...  ...  170 

Angel  Eaces.  I.  and  II.  ...  ...  172 

Sunday  Morning  Bells  ...  ...  ...  174 

Coeur  de  Lion.  I.  and  II.  ...  ...  175 

Guns  of  Peace  ...  ...  ...  177 

David’s  Child  ...  ...  ...  178 

A Word  in  Season  ...  ...  ...  179 

? The  Path  through  the  Snow  ...  ...  180 

The  Path  through  the  Corn  ...  ...  183 

The  Good  of  it.  A Cynic’s  Song  ...  186 

Mine  ...  ...  ...  ...  189 

A Ghost  at  the  Dancing  ...  ...  191 

My  Christian  Name  ...  ...  ...  194 

A Dead  Baby  ...  ...  ...  197 

Eor  Music  ...  ...  ...  ...  199 

The  Canary  in  his  Cage  ...  ...  201 

Constancy  in  Inconstancy  ...  ...  204 

Buried  To-day  ...  ...  ...  209 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

The  Mill  ...  ...  ...  ...  211 

North  Wind  ...  ...  ...  ...  213 

Now  and  Afterwards  ...  ...  ...  215 

A Sketch  ...  ...  ...  ...  217 

The  Unknown  Country  ...  ...  ...  220 

A Child’s  Smile  ...  ...  ...  222 

Violets  ...  ...  ...  ...  224 

* Edenland  ...  ...  ...  ...  227 

The  House  of  Clay  ...  ...  ...  229 

Winter  Moonlight  ...  ...  ...  231 

The  Planting  ...  ...  ...  233 

Sitting  on  the  Shore  ...  ...  ...  237 

Eudoxia:  Eirst  Picture  ...  ...  239 

Eudoxia:  Second  Picture  ...  ...  242 

Eudoxia:  Third  Picture  ...  ...  245 

Benedetta  Minelli.  I.  The  Novice  ...  247 

Benedetta  Minelli.  II.  The  Sister  of  Mercy  250 

A Dream  of  Death  ...  ...  ...  254 

A Dream  of  Resurrection  ...  ...  257 

On  the  Cliff-top  ...  ...  ...  260 

An  Evening  Guest  ...  ...  ...  262 

After  Sunset  ...  ...  ...  264 

The  Garden-chair : two  Portraits  ...  ...  267 

An  Old  Idea  ...  ...  ...  269 

Parables  ...  ...  ...  ...  271 

Lettice  ...  ...  ...  ...  274 

A.  Spirit  Present  ...  ...  ...  276 


X 


CONTENTS. 


PA.GE 

A Winter  Walk  ...  ...  ...  278 

Will  Sail  To-morrow  ...  ...  ...  280 

At  Even-tide  ...  ...  ...  283 

A Dead  Sea-gull : near  Liverpool  ...  285 

Looking  East.  In  January,  1858  ...  287 

Over  the  Hills  and  Ear  Away  ...  ...  290 

a Too  Late  ...  ...  ...  ...  292 

Lost  in  the  Mist  ...  ...  ...  294 

Semper  Eidelis  ...  ...  ...  300 

One  Summer  Morning  ...  ...  ...  304 

My  Love  Annie  ...  ...  ...  305 

Summer  Grone  ..  ...  ...  307 

The  Voice  Calling  ...  ...  ...  311 

The  Wren’s  Nest  ...  ...  ...  315 

A Christmas  Carol  ...  ...  ...  317 

The  Mother’s  Visits.  Erom  the  Erench  ...  319 

A German  Student’s  Euneral  Hymn  ...  320 

Westward,  Ho ! ...  ...  ...  322 


POEMS. 


f 

PHILIP  MY  KING. 

“ Who  bears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovereignty.” 

Look  at  me  with,  thy  large  brown  eyes, 
Philip  my  king, 

Pound  whom  the  enshadowing  purple  lies 
Of  babyhood’s  royal  dignities  : 

Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand 
With  love’s  invisible  sceptre  laden  ; 

I am  thine  Esther  to  command 
Till  thou  shalt  find  a queen-handmaiden, 
Philip  my  king. 


l 


2 


PHILIP  MY  KING. 


O tlie  day  when  thou  goest  a wooing, 
Philip  my  king  ! 

When  those  beautiful  lips  ’gin  suing, 

And  some  gentle  heart’s  bars  undoing 
Thou  dost  enter,  love-crown’d,  and  there 
Sittest  love- glorified.  Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair, 

For  we  that  love,  ah  ! we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip  my  king. 


Up  from  thy  sweet  mouth — up  to  thy  brow, 
Philip  my  king ! 

The  spirit  that  there  lies  sleeping  now 
May  rise  like  a giant,  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  heaven- chosen  amongst  his  peers  : 
My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  taller  and  fairer, 
Let  me  behold  thee  in  future  years  ; — 

Yet  thy  head  needeth  a circlet  rarer, 

Philip  my  king. 


PHILIP  MY  KING. 


3 


— A wreath,  not  of  gold,  but  palm.  One  day, 
Philip  my  king, 

Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a way 
Thorny  and  cruel  and  cold  and  gray  : 

Rebels  within  thee  and  foes  without 
Will  snatch  at  thy  crown.  But  march  on, 
glorious 

Martyr,  yet  monarch  : till  angels  shout, 

As  thou  sitt’st  at  the  feet  of  Giod  victorious, 

“ Philip  the  king  ! ” 


THOUGHTS  IN  A WHEAT-FIELD. 


“ The  harvest  is  the  end  of  the  world,  and  the  reapers  are 
the  angels.” 

In  his  wide  fields  walks  the  Master, 

In  his  fair  fields,  ripe  for  harvest. 

Where  the  evening  sun  shines  slant- wise 
On  the  rich  ears  heavy  bending ; 

Saith  the  Master  : “ It  is  time.” 

Though  no  leaf  shows  brown  decadence, 

And  September’s  nightly  frost-bite 
Only  reddens  the  horizon, 

“ It  is  full  time,”  saith  the  Master, 

The  wise  Master,  “ It  is  time.” 


THOUGHTS  IN  A WHEAT-FIELD. 


Lo,  lie  lqoks.  That  look  compelling 
Brings  the  labourers  to  the  harvest ; 

Quick  they  gather,  as  in  autumn 
Passage-birds  in  cloudy  eddies 

Drop  upon  the  sea-side  fields  : 

White  wings  have  they,  and  white  raiment, 
White  feet,  shod  with  swift  obedience ; 
Each  lays  down  his  golden  palm-branch, 
And  uprears  his  sickle  shining, 

“ Speak,  0 Master — is  it  time  ?” 


O’er  the  field  the  servants  hasten, 

Where  the  full- stored  ears  droop  downwards, 
Humble  with  their  weight  of  harvest ; 
Where  the  empty  ears  wave  upward, 

And  the  gay  tares  flaunt  in  rows  : 

But  the  sickles,  the  sharp  sickles, 

Flash  new  dawn  at  their  appearing, 

Songs  are  heard  in  earth  and  heaven, 


6 


THOUGHTS  IN  A WHEAT-FIELD. 


For  the  reapers  are  the  angels. 
And  it  is  the  harvest  time. 


0 Great  Master,  are  thy  footsteps 
Even  now  upon  the  mountains  ? 

Art  thou  walking  in  thy  wheat-field  ? 
Are  the  snowy- winged  reapers 
Gathering  in  the  silent  air  ? 

Are  thy  signs  abroad,  the  glowing 
Of  the  distant  sky,  blood-redden’d — 
And  the  near  fields  trodden,  blighted, 
Choked  by  gaudy  tares  triumphant, — 
Sure,  it  must  be  harvest  time  ? 


Who  shall  know  the  Master’s  coming  ? 
Whether  it  be  at  dawn  or  sunset, 

When  night  dews  weigh  down  the  wheat-ears, 
Or  while  noon  rides  high  in  heaven, 

Sleeping  lies  the  yellow  field  P 


THOUGHTS  IN  A WHEAT- FIELD. 

Only,  may  thy  voice,  Good  Master, 
Peal  above  the  reapers’  chorus, 

And  dull  sound  of  sheaves  slow  falling, - 
“ Gather  all  into  My  garner, 


For  it  is  My  harvest  time.” 


IMMUTABLE, 


“ With  whom  is  no  variableness,  neither  shadow 
of  turning.” 

Autumn  to  winter — winter  into  spring — 

Spring  into  summer — summer  into  fall — 

Thus  rolls  the  changing  year,  and  thus  we 
change ; 

Motion  so  swift  we  know  not  that  we  move. 

Till  at  the  gate  of  some  memorial  hour 
We  pause — look  in  its  sepulchre  to  find 
The  cast-off  shape  that  years  since  we  called 

« J ” 

And  start,  amazed.  Yet  on  ! we  may  not  stay 


IMMUTABLE. 


9 


To  weep  or  laugh.  All  which  is  past,  is 
past : 

Even  while  we  gaze  the  simulated  form 
Drops  into  dust,  like  many-centuried  corpse 
At  opening  of  a tomb. 

Alack,  this  world 

Is  full  of  change,  change,  change — nothing  but 
change ! 

Is  there  not  one  straw  in  life’s  whirling  flood 
To  hold  by,  as  the  torrent  sweeps  us  down, 

Us,  scatter’d  leaves  ; eddied  and  broken  ; torn 
Roughly  asunder  ; or  in  smooth  mid -stream 
Divided  each  from  other  without  pain  ; 

Collected  in  what  looks  like  union, 

Yet  is  but  stagnant  chance — stopping  to  rot 
By  the  same  pebble  till  the  tide  shall  turn ; 
Then  on,  to  find  no  shelter  and  no  rest, 

For  ever  rootless  and  for  ever  lone. 


10 


IMMUTABLE. 


0 God,  we  are  but  leaves  upon  Thy  stream, 
Clouds  on  Thy  sky.  We  do  but  move  across 
The  stedfast  breast  of  Thine  infinitude 
Which  bears  us  all.  We  pour  out  day  by 
day 

Our  long,  brief  moan  of  mutability 
To  Thine  Immutable — and  cease. 

Yet  still 

Our  change  yearns  after  Thine  unchangedness  : 
Our  mortal  craves  Thine  immortality ; 

Our  manifold  and  multiform  and  weak 
Imperfectness,  requires  the  perfect  One. 

For  Thou  art  One,  and  we  are  all  of  Thee ; 
Dropp’d  from  Thy  bosom,  as  Thy  sky  drops 
down 

Its  morning  dews,  which  glitter  for  a space, 
Uncertain  whence  they  fell,  or  whither  tend, 

Till  the  great  Sun  arising  on  his  fields 
Upcalls  them  all,  and  they  rejoicing  go. 


IMMUTABLE. 


11 


So,  with,  like  joy,  0 Light  Eterne,  we  spring 
Thee- ward,  and  leave  the  pleasant  fields  of  earth, 
Forgetting  equally  their  blossom’d  green 
And  their  dry  dusty  paths  which  drank  us  up 
Remorseless — we,  poor  humble  drops  of  dew 
That  only  wish’d  to  freshen  a flower’s  breast 
And  be  exhaled  to  heaven. 

O Thou  supreme 

All-satisfying  and  immutable  One, 

It  is  enough  to  be  absorb’d  in  Thee 
And  vanish — though ’t  were  only  to  a voice 
That  through  all  ages  with  perpetual  joy 
Goes  evermore  loud  crying,  “ God  ! God  ! God ! ” 


t 

FOUR  YEARS. 


At  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was  down, 
Said  I,  mournfully — My  year  is  at  its  prime, 
Yet  hare  lie  my  meadows,  shorn  before  their 
time, 

In  my  scorch’d  woodlands  the  leaves  are  turning 
brown. 

It  is  the  hot  midsummer,  and  the  hay  is  down. 

At  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was  down, 
Stood  she  by  the  streamlet,  young  and  very  fair, 


FOUR  YEARS. 


13 


With  the  first  white  bindweed  twisted  in  her 
hair — 

Hair  that  drooped  like  birch-boughs, — all  in 
her  simple  gown. 

For  it  was  midsummer, — and  the  hay  was  down. 


At  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was  down, 
Crept  she,  a willing  bride,  close  into  my  breast  : 
Low-piled  the  thunder- clouds  had  drifted  to  the 
west — 

Red-eyed  out  glared  the  sun,  like  knight  from 
leaguer’d  town, 

That  eve  in  high  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was 
down. 


It  is  midsummer — all  the  hay  is  down  ; 

Close  to  her  bosom  press  I dying  eyes, 

Praying,  “ God  shield  thee  till  we  meet  in  Para- 


dise!” 


14 


FOUR  YEARS. 


Bless  her  in  Love’s  name  who  was  my  brief 
life’s  crown, — 

And  I go  at  midsummer,  when  the  hay  is  down. 


THE  DEAD  CZAR. 


Lay  him  beneath  his  snows, 

The  great  Norse  giant  who  in  these  last  days 
Troubled  the  nations.  Gather  decently 
The  imperial  robes  about  him.  ’T  is  but  man 
This  demi-god.  Or  rather  it  was  man, 

And  is — a little  dust,  that  will  corrupt 
As  fast  as  any  nameless  dust  which  sleeps 
’Neath  Alma’s  grass  or  Balaklava’s  yines. 

No  vineyard  grave  for  him.  No  quiet  tomb 
By  river  margin,  where  across  the  seas 


16 


THE  DEAD  CZAR. 


Children’s  fond  thoughts  and  women’s  memories 
come 

Like  angels,  to  sit  by  the  sepulchre, 

Saying  : “ All  these  were  men  who  knew  to 
count, 

Front-faced,  the  cost  of  honour,  nor  did  shrink 
From  its  full  payment : coming  here  to  die, 
They  died — like  men.” 


But  this  man  ? Ah  ! for  him 
Funereal  state,  and  ceremonial  grand, 

The  stone-engraved  sarcophagus,  and  then 
Oblivion. 

Nay,  oblivion  were  as  bliss 
To  that  fierce  howl  which  rolls  from  land  to  land 
Exulting — “ Art  thou  fallen,  Lucifer, 

Son  of  the  morning  ?”  or  condemning — “ Thus 
Perish  the  wicked  !”  or  blaspheming— u Here 
Lies  our  Belshazzar,  our  Sennacherib, 


THE  DEAD  CZAR. 


17 


Our  Pharaoh — he  whose  heart  God  hardened, 
So  that  he  would  not  let  the  people  go.” 


Self- glorifying  sinners  ! Why,  this  man 
Was  but  like  other  men  : — you,  Levite  small, 
Who  shut  your  saintly  ears,  and  prate  of  hell 
And  heretics,  because  outside  church- doors, 

Your  church-doors,  congregations  poor  and 
small 

Praise  Heaven  in  their  own  way ; — you,  auto- 
crat 

Of  all  the  hamlets,  who  add  field  to  field 
And  house  to  house,  whose  slavish  children 
cower 

Before  your  tyrant  footstep  ; — you,  foul-tongued 

Fanatic  or  ambitious  egotist, 

Who  think  God  stoops  from  His  high  Majesty 

To  lay  His  finger  on  your  puny  head, 

And  crown  it — that  you  henceforth  may  parade 
2 


18 


THE  DEAD  CZAR. 


Your  maggot  ship  throughout  the  wondering 
world — 

“ I am  the  Lord’s  anointed  ! ” 

Fools  and  blind! 

This  Czar,  this  emperor,  this  disthroned  corpse 
Lying  so  straightly  in  an  icy  calm 
Grander  than  sovereignty,  was  but  as  ye — 

No  better  and  no  worse  : — Heaven  mend  us  all ! 

Carry  him  forth  and  bury  him.  Death’s  peace 
Rest  on  his  memory  ! Mercy  by  his  bier 
Sits  silent,  or  says  only  these  few  words, — 

“ Let  him  who  is  without  sin  ’mongst  ye  all 


Cast  the  first  stone.” 


THE  WIND  AT  NIGHT. 


0 sudden  blast,  that  through  this  silence  black 
Sweeps  past  my  windows, 

Coming  and  going  with  invisible  track 
As  death  or  sin  does — 

Why  scare  me,  lying  sick,  and,  save  thine  own, 
Hearing  no  voices  ? 

Why  mingle  with  a helpless  human  moan 
Thy  mad  rejoices  ? 


20 


THE  WIND  AT  NIGHT. 


Why  not  come  gently,  as  good  angels  come 
To  souls  departing, 

Floating  among  the  shadows  of  the  room 
With  eyes  light-darting 

Bringing  faint  airs  of  balm  that  seem  to  rouse 
Thoughts  of  a Far  Land, 

Then  binding  softly  upon  weary  brows 
Death’s  poppy-garland  ? 

0 fearful  blast,  I shudder  at  thy  sound 
Like  heathen  mortal 

Who  saw  the  Three  that  mark  life’s  doomed  bound 
Sit  at  his  portal. 

Thou  might’s!  be  laden  with  sad,  shrieking  souls, 
Carried  unwilling 

From  their  known  earth  to  the  unknown  stream 
that  rolls 

All  anguish  stilling. 


THE  WIND  AT  NIGHT. 


21 


Fierce  wind,  will  the  Death-angel  come  like  thee, 
Soon,  soon  to  bear  me 

— Whither  ? What  mysteries  may  unfold  to  me. 
What  terrors  scare  me  ? 

Shall  I go  wand’ring  on  through  empty  space, 
As  on  earth,  lonely  ? 

Or  seek  through  myriad  spirit-ranks  one  face, 
And  miss  that  only  ? 

Shall  I not  then  drop  down  from  sphere  to  sphere 
Palsied  and  aimless  ? 

Or  will  my  being  change  so,  that  both  fear 
And  grief  die  nameless  P 


Rather  I pray  Him  who  Himself  is  Love, 

Out  of  whose  essence 

W e all  do  spring,  and  towards  Him  tending,  move 
Back  to  His  presence, 


22 


THE  WIND  AT  NIGHT. 


That  even  His  brightness  may  not  quite  efface 
The  soul’s  earth-features, 

That  the  dear  human  likeness  each  may  trace— 
Glorified  creatures ; 

That  we  may  not  cease  loving,  only  taught 
Holier  desiring 

More  faith,  more  patience  ; with  more  wisdom 
fraught, 

Higher  aspiring. 

That  we  may  do  all  work  we  left  undone 
Here — through  unmeetness  ; 

From  height  to  height  celestial  passing  on 
Towards  full  completeness. 

Then,  strong  Azrael,  be  thy  supreme  call 
Soft  as  spring-breezes, 

Or  like  this  blast,  whose  loud  fiend- festival 
My  heart’s  blood  freezes, 


THE  WIND  AT  NIGHT. 


23 


I will  not  fear  thee.  If  thou  safely  keep 
My  soul,  God’s  giving, 

And  my  soul’s  soul,  I,  wakening  from  death-sleep, 
Shall  first  know  living. 


A FABLE. 


Silent  and  sunny  was  the  way 

Where  Youth  and  I danced  on  together 
So  winding  and  embower’d  o’er 
We  could  not  see  one  rood  before. 
Nevertheless  all  merrily 
We  bounded  onward,  Youth  and  I, 

Leashed  closely  in  a silken  tether  : 
(Well-a-day,  a,  well-a-day!) 

Ah  Youth,  ah  Youth,  but  I would  fain 
See  thy  sweet  foolish  face  again  ! 

It  came  to  pass,  one  morn  of  May, 

All  in  a swoon  of  golden  weather, 


A FABLE. 


25 


That  I through  green  leaves  fluttering 
Saw  J oy  uprise  on  Psyche  wing : 

Eagerly,  too  eagerly 

We  followed  after — Youth  and  I — 

Till  suddenly  he  slipp’d  the  tether  : 
(Well-a-day,  a,  well-a-day!) 

“ Where  art  thou,  Youth  ? ” I cried.  In  vain  ; 
He  never  more  came  back  again. 

Yet  onward  through  the  devious  way 

In  rain  or  shine,  I reck’d  not  whether, 

Like  many  another  madden’d  boy, 

I track’d  my  Psyche- winged  Joy  ; 

Till,  curving  round  the  bowery  lane, 

Lo — in  the  pathway  stood  pale  Pain, 

And  we  met  face  to  face  together : 
(Well-a-day,  a,  well-a-day  !) 

“ Whence  com’st  thou?” — and  I writhed  in 
vain — 


“ Unloose  thy  cruel  grasp,  0 Pain  ! ” 


26 


A FABLE. 


But  he  would  not.  Since,  day  by  day 

He  has  ta’en  up  Youth’s  silken  tether 
And  changed  it  into  iron  bands. 

So  through  rich  vales  and  barren  lands 
Solemnly,  all  solemnly 
March  we  united,  he  and  I ; 

And  we  have  grown  such  friends  together, 
(Well-a-day,  a,  well-a-day!) 

I and  this  my  brother  Pain, 

I think  we  ’ll  never  part  again. 


LABOUR  IS  PRAYER 


Laborare  est  orare  : 

We,  black- visaged  sons  of  toil, 

From  the  coal-  mine  and  the  anvil 
And  the  delving  of  the  soil, — 

From  the  loom,  the  wharf,  the  warehouse, 
And  the  ever- whirling  mill, 

Out  of  grim  and  hungry  silence 

Lift  a weak  voice,  small  and  shrill ; — 
Laborare  est  orare : 

Man,  dost  hear  us  ? Grod,  He  will. 

We  who  just  can  keep  from  starving 
Sickly  wives — not  always  mild  : 


28 


LABOUR  IS  PRAYER. 


Trying  not  to  curse  Heaven’s  bounty 
When  it  sends  another  child, — 
We  who,  worn-out,  doze  on  Sundays 
O’er  the  Book  we  strive  to  read, 
Cannot  understand  the  parson 
Or  the  catechism  and  creed, — 
Laborare  est  or  are  : — 

Then,  good  sooth,  we  pray  indeed. 


We,  poor  women,  feeble-natured, 

Large  of  heart,  in  wisdom  small, 

Who  the  world’s  incessant  battle 
Cannot  understand  at  all, 

All  the  mysteries  of  the  churches, 

All  the  troubles  of  the  state, — 

Whom  child- smiles  teach  “ God  is  loving,” 
And  child-coffins,  “ God  is  great : ” 
Laborare  est  or  are  : — 


We  too  at  His  footstool  wait. 


LABOUR  IS  PRAYER. 


29 


Laborare  est  orare  ; 

Hear  it,  ye  of  spirit  poor, 

Who  sit  crouching  at  the  threshold 
While  your  brethren  force  the  door ; 

Ye  whose  ignorance  stands  wringing 

Rough  hands,  seam’d  with  toil,  nor  dares 
Lift  so  much  as  eyes  to  heaven — 

Lo  ! all  life  this  truth  declares, 

Laborare  est  orare  ; 

And  the  whole  earth  rings  with  prayers. 


A SILLY  SONG. 


“ 0 heart,  my  heart ! ” she  said,  and  heard 
His  mate  the  blackbird  calling, 

While  through  the  sheen  of  the  garden  green 
May  rain  was  softly  falling — 

Aye  softly,  softly  falling. 

The  butter-cups  across  the  field 

Made  sunshine  rifts  of  splendour  : 

The  round  snow-bud  of  the  thorn  in  the  wood 
Peep’d  through  its  leafage  tender, 

As  the  rain  came  softly  falling. 


A SILLY  SONG. 


31 


“ 0 heart,  my  heart ! ” she  said  and  smiled, 
“ There  ’s  not  a tree  of  the  valley, 

Or  a leaf,  I wis,  which  the  rain’s  soft  kiss 
Freshens  in  yonder  alley, 

Where  the  drops  keep  ever  falling, — 

“ There ’s  not  a foolish  flower  i’  the  grass, 
Or  bird  through  the  woodland  calling, 
So  glad  again  of  the  coming  of  rain 
As  I of  these  tears  now  falling — 

These  happy  tears  down  falling.” 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Obiit  1854. 

Heaven  rest  thee  ! 

We  shall  go  about  to-day 
In  our  festal  garlands  gay ; 
Whatsoever  robes  we  wear, 

Not  a trace  of  black  be  there. 
Well,  what  matters  P none  is  seen 
On  thy  daisy- covering  green, 

Or  thy  pure  white  pillow,  hid 
Underneath  a coffin  lid. 

Heaven  rest  thee ! 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


33 


Heaven  take  thee  ! — 

Ay,  Heaven  only.  Sleeps  beneath 
One  who  died  a virgin  death : 

Died  ^o  slowly,  day  by  day, 

That  it  scarcely  seem’d  decay, 

Till  this  lonely  churchyard  kind 
Open’d — and  we  left  behind 
Nothing  but  a little  dust ; — 
Heaven  is  pitiful  and  just : 

Heaven  take  thee ! 


Heaven  keep  thee : 

Nevermore  above  the  ground 

Be  one  relic  of  thee  found : 

Lay  the  turf  so  smooth,  we  crave, 

None  would  guess  it  was  a grave, 

Save  for  grass  that  greener  grows, 

And  for  wind  that  gentlier  blows 
3 


34 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


All  the  earth  o’er,  from  this  spot 
Where  thou  wert — and  thou  art  not. 
Heaven  keep  thee  ! 


AN  HONEST  VALENTINE. 


Keturned  from  the  Dead-letter  Office. 


Thank  ye  for  your  kindness, 

Lady  fair  and  wise, 

Though  Love  ’s  famed  for  blindness, 
Lovers — hem  ! for  lies. 

Courtship  ’s  mighty  pretty, 

Wedlock  a sweet  sight ; — 

Should  I (from  the  city, 

A plain  man,  Miss  — ) write, 

Ere  we  spouse-and-wive  it, 

Just  one  honest  line, 

Could  you  e’er  forgive  it, 

Pretty  Valentine  ? 


36 


AN  HONEST  VALENTINE. 


Honey-moon  quite  over, 

If  I less  should  scan 
You  with  eye  of  lover 
Than  of  mortal  man  ? 
Seeing  my  fair  charmer 
Curl  hair  spire  on  spire, 
All  in  paper  armour, 

By  the  parlour  fire ; 
Gown  that  wants  a stitch  in 
Hid  by  apron  fine, 
Scolding  in  her  kitchen, — 

0 fie,  Valentine ! 


Should  I come  home  surly, 
Vex’d  with  fortune’s  frown, 
Find  a hurly-burly, 

House  turn’d  upside  down, 
Servants  all  a-snarl,  or 
Cleaning  steps  or  stair  : 


AN  HONEST  VALENTINE. 


37 


Breakfast  still  in  parlour, 
Dinner — anywhere : 
Shall  I to  cold  bacon 
Meekly  fall  and  dine  ? 
No — or  I ’m  mistaken 
Much,  my  Valentine. 


What  if  we  should  quarrel  ? 

— Bless  you,  all  folks  do  : — 
Will  you  take  the  war  ill, 

Yet  half  like  it  too  ? 

When  I storm  and  jangle, 
Obstinate,  absurd, 

Will  you  sit  and  wrangle 
J ust.  for  the  last  word  P — 

Or,  while  poor  Love,  crying, 
Upon  tip-toe  stands, 

Beady  plumed  for  flying  — 
Will  you  smile,  shake  hands, 


38 


AN  HONEST  VALENTINE. 


And  the  truth  beholding, 

With  a kiss  divine 
Stop  my  rough  mouth’s  scolding 
Bless  you,  Valentine ! 


If,  should  times  grow  harder. 

We  have  lack  of  pelf, 

Little  in  the  larder, . 

Less  upon  the  shelf ; 

Will  you,  never  tearful, 

Make  your  old  gowns  do, 
Mend  my  stockings,  cheerful, 
And  pay  visits  few  P 
Crave  nor  gift  nor  donor, 

Old  days  ne’er  regret, 

Ask  no  friend  save  Honour, 
Dread  no  foe  but  Debt ; 
Meet  ill-fortune  steady, 

Hand  to  hand  with  mine, 


AN  HONEST  VALENTINE. 


Like  a gallant  lady — 
Will  you,  Valentine  ? 


Then,  whatever  weather 
Come — or  shine,  or  shade, 

We  T1  set  out  together, 

Ne’er  a whit  afraid. 

Age  is  not  alarming — 

I shall  find,  I ween, 

You  at  sixty  charming 
As  at  sweet  sixteen : 

Let ’s  pray,  nothing  loath,  dear, 
That  our  funeral  may 
Make  one  date  serve  both,  dear, 
Like  our  marriage  day. 

Then,  come  joy  or  sorrow, 

Thou  art  mine — I thine. 

And  we  ’ll  wed  to-morrow, 
Dearest  Valentine. 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE. 


Ay,  in  thy  face,  old  fellow  ! Now ’s  the  time. 
The  Black  Sea  wind  flaps  my  tent-roof,  nor 
wakes 

These  lads  of  mine,  who  take  of  sleep  their  fill, 
As  if  they  thought  they ’d  never  sleep  again, 
Instead  of — 

Pitiless  Crimean  blast, 

How  many  a howling  lullaby  thou  Tt  raise 
To-morrow  night,  all  nights  till  the  world’s 
end, 

Over  some  sleepers  here  ! 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE. 


41 


Some  ? — who  ? Dumb  Fate 
Whispers  in  no  man’s  ear  his  coming  doom. 
Each  thinks — “ not  I — not  I.” 

Yet,  solemn  Death, 

I hear  thee  on  the  night- wind  flying  abroad, 

I feel  thee  here,  squatted  at  our  tent- door, 
Invisible  and  incommunicable, 

Pointing — 

“ Hurrah  !” 

Why  yell  so  in  your  sleep, 
Comrade  ? Did  you  see  aught  P 

Well — let  him  dream  : 
Who  knows,  to-morrow  such  a shout  as  this 
He  ’ll  die  with.  A brave  lad,  and  very  like 
His  sister.  # * * * 

So  ! just  two  hours  have  I lain 
Freezing.  That  pale  white  star,  which  came 
and  peer’d 

Through  the  tent-opening,  has  pass’d  on,  to 
smile 


42 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE. 


Elsewhere,  or  lost  herself  i’  the  dark — God 
knows. 

Two  hours  nearer  to  dawn.  The  very  hour — 
The  very  hour  and  day,  a year  ago, 

When  we  light-hearted  and  light-footed  fools 
Went  jingling  idle  swords  in  waltz  and  reel, 
And  smiling  in  fair  faces.  How  they  5d  start, 
Those  dainty  red  and  white  soft  faces  kind, 

If  only  they  could  see  my  visage  now, 

Or  his — or  his — or  some  poor  faces  cold 
We  cover’d  up  with  earth  last  noon. 

— There  sits 

The  laidly  Thing  I felt  at  our  tent-door 
Two  hours  back.  It  has  sat  and  never  stirr’d. 

I cannot  challenge  it — nor  shoot  it  down, 

Nor  grapple  with  it,  as  with  that  young  Russ 
Whom  I kill’d  yesterday.  (What  eyes  he  had  ! — 
Great  limpid  eyes,  and  curling  dark-red  hair — 
A woman’s  picture  hidden  in  his  breast — 

I never  liked  this  fighting  hand  to  hand.) 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE. 


43 


No — it  will  not  be  met  like  flesh  and  blood. 
This  shapeless,  voiceless,  immaterial  Thing, 

Yet  I will  meet  it.  Here  I sit  alone — 

Show'  me  thy  face,  0 Death  ! 

There,  there.  I think 

I did  not  tremble. 

I am  a young  man  ; 

Have  done  full  many  an  ill  deed,  left  undone 
Many  a good  one  : lived  unto  the  flesh, 

Not  to  the  spirit : I would  rather  live 
A few  years  more,  and  try  if  things  might 
change. 

Yet,  yet  I hope  I do  not  tremble,  Death ; 

That  thy  cold  finger  pointed  at  my  heart 
But  calms  the  tumult  there. 


What  small  account 

The  All-living  seems  to  take  of  this  thin  flame 
Which  we  call  life . He  sends  a moment’s  blast 
Out  of  war’s  nostrils,  and  a myriad 


44 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE. 


Of  these  our  puny  tapers  are  biown  out 
For  ever.  Yet  we  shrink  not — we,  such  frail 
Poor  knaves,  whom  a spent  ball  can  instant 
strike 

Into  eternity — we  helpless  fools, 

Whom  a serf’s  clumsy  hand  and  clumsier 
sword 

Smiting — shall  sudden  into  nothingness 
Let  out  that  something  rare  which  could  con- 
ceive 

A universe  and  its  Grod. 


Free,  open-eyed, 

We  rush  like  bridegrooms  to  Death’s  grisly  arms  : 
Surely  the  very  longing  for  that  clasp 
Proves  us  immortal.  Immortality 
Alone  could  teach  this  mortal  how  to  die. 
Perhaps,  war  is  but  Heaven’s  great  ploughshare, 
driven 

Over  the  barren,  fallow  earthly  fields, 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE. 


45 


Preparing  them  for  harvest ; rooting  up 
Grass,  weeds,  and  flowers,  which  necessary  fall, 
That  in  these  furrows  the  wise  Husband  man 
May  drop  celestial  seed. 

So,  let  us  die  : 

Yield  up  our  lives,  content,  as  the  flowers  do ; 
Believing  He  T1  not  lose  one  single  soul — 

One  germ  of  His  immortal.  Nought  of  His 
Or  Him  can  perish  ; therefore  let  us  die. 

I half  remember  something  like  to  this 
She  says  in  her  dear  letters.  So — let I * * *  5s  die. 

What,  dawn  P The  faint  hum  in  the  trenches 
fails — 

Is  that  a bell  i*  the  mist  ? My  faith  ! they  go 
Early  to  matins  in  Sebastopol — 

A gun  ! — Lads — stand  to  your  arms  ; the  Puss 
is  here. 

Agnes . 


46 


LOOKING  DEATH  IN  THE  FACE. 


Kind  Heaven,  I have  look’d  death  in  the 
face, 

Help  me  to  die. 


BY  THE  ALMA  RIVER. 


Willie,  fold  your  little  hands ; 

Let  it  drop — that  “ soldier  ” toy 
Look  where  father’s  picture  stands — 
Father,  who  here  kiss’d  his  boy 
Not  three  months  since — father  kind, 
Who  this  night  may — Never  mind 
Mother’s  sob,  my  Willie  dear, 

Call  aloud  that  He  may  hear 
Who  is  God  of  battles,  say, 

“ Oh,  keep  father  safe  this  day 
By  the  Alma  river.” 


48 


BY  THE  ALMA  RIVER. 


Ask  no  more,  child.  Never  heed 
Either  Russ,  or  Frank,  or  Turk, 

Right  of  nations  or  of  creed, 

Chance-poised  victory’s  bloody  work  : 
Any  flag  i’  the  wind  may  roll 
On  thy  heights,  Sebastopol ; 

Willie,  all  to  you  and  me 
Is  that  spot,  where’er  it  be, 

Where  he  stands — no  other  word  ! 

Stands — Sure,  the  child’s  prayer  was  heard 
By  the  Alma  river. 

Willie,  listen  to  the  bells 

Ringing  through  the  town  to-day. 
That ’s  for  victory.  Ah,  no  knells 
For  the  many  swept  away — 

Hundreds — thousands  ! Let  us  weep, 

We,  who  need  not — just  to  keep 
Reason  steady  in  my  brain 
Till  the  morning  comes  again, 


BY  THE  RIVER  ALMA. 


49 


Till  the  third  dread  morning  tell 
Who  they  were  that  fought  and  fell 
By  the  Alma  river. 

Come,  we  T1  lay  us  down,  my  child, 
Poor  the  bed  is,  poor  and  hard ; 
Yet  thy  father,  far  exiled, 

Sleeps  upon  the  open  sward, 
Breaming  of  us  two  at  home  : 

Or  beneath  the  starry  dome 
Digs  out  trenches  in  the  dark, 
Where  he  buries — Willie,  mark — 
Where  he  buries  those  who  died 
Fighting  bravely  at  his  side 
By  the  Alma  river. 

Willie,  Willie,  go  to  sleep, 

God  will  keep  us,  0 my  boy  , 

He  will  make  the  dull  hours  creep 

Faster,  and  send  news  of  joy, 

4 


50 


BY  THE  ALMA  RIVER. 


When  I need  not  shrink  to  meet 
Those  dread  placards  in  the  street, 
Which  for  weeks  will  ghastly  stare 
In  some  eyes — Child,  say  thy  prayer 
Once  again  ; a different  one : 

Say,  “ 0 God,  Thy  will  be  done 
By  the  Alma  river. ’ 9 


ROTHESAY  BAY. 


Fu’  yellow  lie  the  corn-rigs 

Far  doun  the  braid  hill-side  ; 
It  is  the  brawest  harst  field 

Alang  the  shores  o’  Clyde, — 
And  I hn  a puir  harst-lassie, 

That  stands  the  lee-lang  day 
Shearing  the  corn-rigs  of  Ardbeg 
Aboon  sweet  Rothesay  Bay. 

0 I had  ance  a true-love — 

How,  I hae  nane  ava  ; 

4.  * 


UNIVERSITY  of  ILUrtUtt 
LIBRARY" 


52 


ROTHESAY  BAY. 


And  I had  ance  three  brithers, 

But  I hae  tint  them  a’ : 

My  father  and  my  mithei 

Sleep  i’  the  mools  this  day. 

I sit  my  lane  amang  the  rigs 
Aboon  sweet  Rothesay  Bay. 

It ’s  a bonnie  bay  at  morning, 

And  bonnier  at  the  noon, 

But  it ’s  bonniest  when  the  sun  draps 
And  red  comes  up  the  moon  : 

When  the  mist  creeps  o’er  the  Cumbrays, 
And  Arran  peaks  are  grey, 

And  the  great  black  hills,  like  sleepiiT  kings, 
Sit  grand  roun’  Rothesay  Bay, 

Then  a bit  sigh  stirs  my  bosom, 

And  a wee  tear  blin’s  my  e’e — 

And  I think  o’  that  far  Countrie 
Whar  I wad  like  to  be  ! 


ROTHESAY  BAY. 


53 


But  I rise  content  i’  tlie  morning 
To  wark  while  wark  I may 
I’  the  yellow  harst  field  of  Ardbeg, 
Aboon  sweet  Rothesay  Bay. 


LIVING : 


AFTER  A DEATH. 

“ That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God.” 


0 LIVE  ! 

(Thus  seems  it  we  should  say  to  our  beloved — 
Each  held  by  such  slight  links,  so  oft  removed  ;) 
And  I can  let  thee  go  to  the  world’s  end ; 

All  precious  names,  companion,  love,  spouse, 
friend, 

Seal  up  in  an  eternal  silence  grey, 

Like  a closed  grave  till  resurrection- day  : 

All  sweet  remembrances,  hopes,  dreams,  desires, 


LIVING. 


55 


Heap,  as  one  heaps  up  sacrificial  fires  : 

Then,  turning,  consecrate  by  loss,  and  proud 
Of  penury — go  back  into  the  loud 
Tumultuous  world  again  with  never  a moan — 
Save  that  which  whispers  still,  “ My  own,  my 
own,” 

Unto  the  same  broad  sky  whose  arch  immense 
Enfolds  us  both  like  the  arm  of  Providence  : 
And  thus,  contented,  I could  live  or  die, 

With  never  clasp  of  hand  or  meeting  eye 
On  this  side  paradise.— While  thee  I see 
Living  to  Grod,  thou  art  alive  to  me. 

0 live ! 

And  I,  methinks,  can  let  all  dear  rights  go, 
Fond  duties  melt  away  like  April  snow, 

And  sweet,  sweet  hopes,  that  took  a life  to  weave, 
Vanish  like  gossamers  of  autumn  eve. 

Nay,  sometimes  seems  it  I could  even  bear 
To  lay  down  humbly  this  love- crown  I wear 


56 


LIVING. 


Steal  from  my  palace,  helpless,  hopeless,  poor, 
And  see  another  queen  it  at  the  door — 

If  only  that  the  king  had  done  no  wrong, 

If  this  my  palace,  where  I dwelt  so  long, 

Were  not  defiled  by  falsehood  entering  in  : — 
There  is  no  loss  but  change,  no  death  but  sin, 
No  parting,  save  the  slow  corrupting  pain 
Of  murder’d  faith  that  never  lives  again. 

0 live ! 

(So  endeth  faint  the  low  pathetic  cry 

Of  love,  whom  death  has  taught,  love  cannot  die). 

And  I can  stand  above  the  daisy  bed, 

The  only  pillow  for  thy  dearest  head, 

There  cover  up  for  ever  from  my  sight 
My  own,  my  own,  my  all  of  earth-delight ; 

And  enter  the  sea-cave  of  widow’d  years, 

Where  far,  far  off  the  trembling  gleam  appears 
Through  which  thy  heavenly  image  slipp’d 
away, 


LIVING. 


57 

And  waits  to  meet  me  at  the  open  day. 

Only  to  me,  my  love,  only  to  me. 

This  cavern  underneath  the  moaning  sea  ; 

This  long,  long  life  that  I alone  must  tread, 

To  whom  the  living  seem  most  like  the  dead, — 
Thou  wilt  be  safe  out  on  the  happy  shore  : 

He  who  in  Grod  lives,  liveth  evermore. 


IN  OUR  BOAT. 


Stars  trembling  o’er  us  and  sunset  before  us, 
Mountains  in  shadow  and  forests  asleep  ; 
Down  the  dim  river  we  float  on  for  ever, 

Speak  not,  ab  breathe  not — there  ’s  peace  on 
the  deep. 

Come  not,  pale  Sorrow,  flee  till  to-morrow, 

Rest  softly  falling  o’er  eyelids  that  weep ; 
While  down  the  river  we  float  on  for  ever, 

Speak  not,  ah  breathe  not,  there ’s  peace  on 
the  deep. 


IN  OUR  BOAT. 


59 


As  the  waves  cover  the  depths  we  glide  over, 

So  let  the  past  in  forgetfulness  sleep, 

While  down  the  river  we  float  on  for  ever, 
Speak  not,  ah  breathe  not,  there  *s  peace  on 
the  deep. 

Heaven,  shine  above  us,  bless  all  that  love  us, 
All  whom  we  love  in  thy  tenderness  keep  ! 
While  down  the  river  we  float  on  for  ever, 
Speak  not,  ah  breathe  not,  there  *s  peace  on 
the  deep. 


THE  RIVER  SHORE. 


For  an  old  tune  of  Dowland’s. 


Walking  by  the  quiet  river 

Where  the  slow  tide  seaward  goes, 
All  the  cares  of  life  fall  from  us, 

All  our  troubles  find  repose  : 
Nought  forgetting,  nought  regretting, 
Lovely  ghosts,  from  days  no  more, 
Glide  with  white  feet  o’er  the  river, 
Smiling  towards  the  silent  shore. 


THE  RIVER  SHORE. 


Gi 


So  we  pray,  in  His  good  pleasure, 
When  this  world  we  We  safely  trod, 
We  may  walk  beside  the  river 
Flowing  from  the  throne  of  God  : 
All  forgiving,  all  believing, 

Tsot  one  lost  we  loved  before, 
Looking  towards  the  hills  of  heaven 
Calmly  from  the  eternal  shore. 


A FLOWER  OF  A DAY. 


Old  friend,  that  with  a pale  and  pensile  grace 
Climb’st  the  lush  hedgerows,  art  thou  back  again, 
Marking  the  slow  round  of  the  wondrous  years  ? 
Didst  beckon  me  a moment,  silent  flower  ? 

Silent  ? As  silent  is  the  archangel’s  pen 
That  day  by  day  writes  our  life  chronicle, 

And  turns  the  page  ; the  half- forgotten  page, 
Which  all  eternity  will  never  blot. 

Forgotten  ? No,  we  never  do  forget : 

We  let  the  years  go  : wash  them  clean  with  tears, 
Leave  them  to  bleach,  out  in  the  open  day, 


A FLOWER  OF  A DAY. 


63 


Or  lock  them  careful  by,  like  dead  friends’  clothes, 
Till  we  shall  dare  unfold  them  without  pain — 
But  we  forget  not,  never  can  forget. 

Flower,  thou  and  I a moment  face  to  face — 

My  face  as  clear  as  thine,  this  July  noon 
Shining  on  both,  on  bee  and  butterfly 
And  golden  beetle  creeping  in  the  sun — 

Will  pause,  and  lifting  up,  page  after  page, 

The  many- colour’d  history  of  life, 

Look  backwards,  backwards. 

So,  the  volume  close  ! 

This  July  day,  with  the  sun  high  in  heaven, 

And  the  whole  earth  rejoicing — let  it  close. 

I think  we  need  not  sigh,  complain,  nor  rave : 
Nor  blush — our  doings  and  misdoings  all 
Being  more  ’gainst  heaven  than  man,  heaven 
them  does  keep 


64 


A FLOWER  OF  A DAY. 


With  all  its  doings  and  undoings  strange 
Concerning  us. — Ah,  let  the  volume  close  : 

I would  not  alter  in  it  one  poor  line. 

My  dainty  flower,  my  innocent  white  flower, 
With  such  a pure  smile  looking  up  to  heaven, 
With  such  a bright  smile  looking  down  on  me — 
(Nothing  but  smiles — as  if  in  all  the  world 
Were  no  such  things  as  thunder-storms  or  frosts, 
Or  broken  petals  trampled  on  the  ground, 

Or  shivering  leaves  whirl’d  in  the  wintry  air 
Like  ghosts  of  last  year’s  joys :) — my  pretty 
flower, 

I’ll  pluck  thee — smiling  too.  Not  one  salt  drop 
Shall  stain  thee  : — if  these  foolish  eyes  are  dim, 
’T  is  only  with  a wondering  thankfulness 
That  they  behold  such  beauty  and  such  peace, 
Such  wisdom  and  such  sweetness,  in  God’s  world. 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  MOWING. 


All  shimmering  in  the  morning  shine 
And  diamonded  with  dew, 

And  quivering  in  the  scented  wind 
That  thrills  its  green  heart  through, — 
The  little  field,  the  smiling  field, 

With  all  its  flowers  a-blowing, 

How  happy  looks  the  golden  field 
The  day  before  the  mowing  ! 

All  still  ’neath  the  departing  light, 

Twilight,  though  void  of  stars, 

Save  where,  low  westering,  Venus  hides 

From  the  red  eye  of  Mars ; 

5 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  MOWING. 


How  quiet  lies  the  silent  field 
With  all  its  beauties  glowing ; 
Just  stirring — like  a child  asleep, — 
The  night  before  the  mowing. 

Sharp  steel,  inevitable  hand, 

Cut  keen,  cut  kind  ! Our  field 
We  know  full  well  must  be  laid  low 
Before  its  wealth  it  yield : 

Labour  and  mirth  and  plenty  blest 
Its  blameless  death  bestowing  : 
And  yet  we  weep,  and  yet  we  weep, 
The  night  before  the  mowing. 


PASSION  PAST. 


Were  1 a boy,  with  a boy’s  heart-beat 
At  glimpse  of  her  passing  adown  the  street, 
Of  a room  where  she  had  enter’d  and  gone, 
Or  a page  her  hand  had  written  on — 

Would  all  be  with  me  as  it  was  before  ? 

Oh  no,  never  ! no,  no,  never  ! 

Never  any  more. 

Were  I a man,  with  a man’s  pulse-tlirob, 
Breath  hard  and  fierce,  held  down  like  a sob, 


68 


PASSION  PAST. 


Dumb,  yet  hearing  her  lightest  word, 

Blind,  until  only  her  garment  stirrid : 

Would  I pour  my  life  like  wine  on  her  floor  ? 
No,  no,  never  : never,  never  ! 

Never  any  more. 

Grey  and  wither’d,  wrinkled  and  marr’d, 

I have  past  through  the  fire  and  come  out  un- 
scarr’d, 

With  the  image  of  manhood  upon  me  yet, 

No  shame  to  remember,  no  wish  to  forget : 

But  could  she  rekindle  the  pangs  I bore  ? — 

Oh  no,  never  : thank  God,  never  ! 

Never  any  more. 

Old  and  wrinkled,  wither’d  and  grey — 

And  yet  if  her  light  step  pass’d  to-day, 

I should  see  her  face  all  faces  among, 

And  say — “ Heaven  love  thee,  whom  I loved 


PASSION  PAST. 


69 


Thou  hast  lost  the  key  of  my  heart’s  door, 
Lost  it  ever  and  for  ever, 

Ay,  for  evermore.” 


OCTOBER. 


It  is  no  joy  to  me  to  sit 
On  dreamy  summer  eves, 

When  silently  the  timid  moon 
Kisses  the  sleeping  leaves. 

And  all  things  through  the  fair  hush’d  earth 
Love,  rest — but  nothing  grieves. 

Better  I like  old  autumn, 

His  hair  toss’ d to  and  fro, 

Firm  striding  o’er  the  stubble  fields 
When  the  equinoctials  blow. 

When  shrinkingly  the  sun  creeps  up 
Through  misty  mornings  cold, 


OCTOBER. 


71 


And  Robin  on  the  orchard  hedge 
Sings  cheerily  and  bold, 

While  heavily  the  frosted  plum 

Drops  downwards  on  the  mould  ; — 

And  as  he  passes,  autumn 
Into  earth’s  lap  does  throw 
Brown  apples  gay  in  a game  of  play, 

As  the  equinoctials  blow. 

When  the  spent  year  its  carol  sinks 
Into  a humble  psalm, 

Asks  no  more  for  the  pleasure  draught, 

But  for  the  cup  of  balm, 

And  all  its  storms  and  sunshine  bursts 
Controls  to  one  brave  calm, — 

Then  step  by  step  walks  autumn, 

With  steady  eyes  that  show 
Nor  grief  nor  fear,  to  the  death  of  the  year, 
While  the  equinoctials  blow. 


MOON- STRUCK. 


A FANTASY. 

It  is  a moor 

Barren  and  treeless  ; lying  high  and  bare 
Beneath  the  arched  sky.  The  rushing  winds 
Fly  over  it,  each  with  his  strong  bow  bent 
And  quiver  full  of  whistling  arrows  keen. 

I am  a woman,  lonely,  old,  and  poor. 

If  there  be  any  one  who  watches  me 

(But  there  is  none)  adown  the  long  blank  wold, 

My  figure  painted  on  the  level  sky 


MOON-STRUCK. 


73 


Would  startle  him  as  if  it  were  a ghost, — 

And  like  a ghost,  a weary  wandering  ghost, 

1 roam  and  roam,  and  shiver  through  the  dark 
That  will  not  hide  me.  Oh  for  one  still  hour, 
One  blessed  hour  of  warm  and  dewy  night, 

To  wrap  me  like  a pall — with  not  an  eye 
In  earth  or  heaven  to  pierce  the  black  serene. 

Night,  call  ye  this  ? No  night ; no  dark — no 
rest — 

A moon- ray  sweeps  down  sudden  from  the  sky, 
And  smites  the  moor — 

Is  ’t  thou,  accursed  Thing, 
Broad,  pallid,  like  a great  woe  looming  out — 
Out  of  its  long- seal’d  grave,  to  fill  all  earth 
With  a dead  ghastly  smile  P Art  there  again, 
Round,  perfect,  large,  as  when  we  buried  thee, 
I and  the  kindly  clouds  that  heard  my  prayers  ? 
I T1  sit  me  down  and  meet  thee  face  to  face, 
Mine  enemy  ! — Why  didst  thou  rise  upon 


74 


MOON-STRUCK. 


My  world — my  innocent  world,  to  make  me  mad  ? 
Wherefore  shine  forth,  a tiny  tremulous  curve 
Hung  out  in  the  grey  sunset  beauteously, 

To  tempt  mine  eyes — then  nightly  to  increase 
Slow  orbing,  till  thy  full,  blank,  pitiless  stare 
Hunts  me  across  the  world  ? 

No  rest — no  dark. 

Hour  after  hour  that  passionless  bright  face 
Climbs  up  the  desolate  blue.  I will  press  down 
The  lids  on  my  tired  eye-balls — crouch  in  dust, 
And  pray. 

— Thank  God,  thank  God  ! — a cloud  has  hid 
My  torturer.  The  night  at  last  is  free  : 

Forth  peep  in  crowds  the  merry  twinkling  stars. 
Ah,  we  T1  shine  out,  the  little  silly  stars 
And  I ; we  T1  dance  together  across  the  moor, 
They  up  aloft — I here.  At  last,  at  last, 

We  are  avenged  of  our  adversary  ! 


The  freshening  of  the  night  air  feels  like  dawn. 


MOON-STRUCK 


75 


Who  said  that  I was  mad  ? I will  arise, 

Throw  off  my  burthen,  march  across  the  wold 
Airily — Ha,  what,  stumbling  ? Nay,  no  fear — 
I am  used  unto  the  dark ; for  many  a year 
Steering  companionless  athwart  this  waste 
To  where,  deep  hid  in  valleys  of  white  mist, 

The  pleasant  home-lights  shine.  I will  but 
pause, 

Turn  round  and  gaze — 

0 miserable  me ! 

The  cloud-bank  overflows  : sudden  out-pour 
The  bright  white  moon- rays — ah,  I drown,  I 
drown, 

And  o’er  the  flood,  with  steady  motion,  slow 
It  walketh — my  inexorable  Doom. 

No  more  : I shall  not  struggle  any  more  : 

I will  lie  down  as  quiet  as  a child, — 

I can  but  die. 


There,  I have  hid  my  face : 


76 


MOON -STRUCK. 


Stray  travellers  passing  o’er  the  silent  wold 
Would  only  say  “ She  sleeps.” 

Glare  on,  my  Doom  ; 
I will  not  look  at  thee  : and  if  at  times 
I shiver,  still  I neither  weep  nor  moan : 

Angels  may  see,  I neither  weep  nor  moan. 

Was  that  sharp  whistling  wind  the  morning 
breeze 

That  calls  the  stars  back  to  the  obscure  of 
heaven  P 

I am  very  cold. — And  yet  there  is  a change. 
Less  fiercely  the  sharp  moonbeams  smite  my 
brain ; 

My  heart  beats  slower,  duller : soothing  rest 
Like  a soft  garment  binds  my  shuddering 
limbs. — x 

If  I look’d  up  now,  should  I see  it  still 
Gibbeted  ghastly  in  the  hopeless  sky  ? — 

No! 


MOON-STRUCK. 


77 


It  is  very  strange  : all  things  seem  strange  : 
Pale  spectral  face,  I do  not  fear  thee  now : 

Was  ’t  this  mere  shadow  which  did  haunt  me 
once 

Like  an  avenging  fiend  ? — Well,  we  fade  out 
Together  : I ’ll  nor  dread  nor  curse  thee  more. 

How  calm  the  earth  seems  ! and  I know  the 
moor 

Glistens  with  dew-stars.  I will  try  and  turn 
My  poor  face  eastward.  Close  not,  eyes  ! That 
light 

Fringing  the  far  hills,  all  so  fair — so  fair, 

Is  it  not  dawn  ? I am  dying,  but  ?t  is  dawn. 

“ Upon  the  mountains  I behold  the  feet 
Of  my  Beloved : let  us  forth  to  meet  ” — 

Death. 

This  is  death.  I see  the  light  no  more  ; 
I sleep. 

But  like  a morning  bird  my  soul 


78 


MOON-STRUCK. 


Springs  singing  upward,  into  the  deeps  of 
heaven, 

Through  world  on  world  to  follow  Infinite  Day. 


A STREAM’S  SIN  GIN  Q. 


0 how  beautiful  is  Morning  ! 

How  the  sunbeams  strike  the  daisies, 
And  the  king-cups  fill  the  meadow, 
Like  a golden- shielded  armv 

Marching  to  the  uplands  fair  ! — 

1 am  going  forth  to  battle, 

And  life’s  uplands  rise  before  me, 
And  my  golden  shield  is  ready, 

And  I pause  a moment,  timing 
My  heart’s  paean  to  the  waters, 

As  with  cheerful  song  incessant 

Onwards  runs  the  little  stream  ; 


80 


a stream’s  singing. 


Singing  ever,  onward  ever, 

Boldly  runs  the  merry  stream. 

0 how  glorious  is  Noon- day  ! 

With  the  cool  large  shadows  lying 
Underneath  the  giant  forest , 

The  far  hill-tops  towering  dimly 

O’er  the  conquer’d  plains  below  ; — 

1 am  conquering — I shall  conquer 
In  life’s  battle-field  impetuous  : 

And  I lie  and  listen  dreamy 

To  a double-voiced,  low  music, — 

Tender  beech-trees’  sheeny  shiver 
Mingled  with  the  diapason 

Of  the  strong,  deep,  joyful  stream, 
Like  a man’s  love  and  a woman’s ; 

So  it  runs — the  happy  stream  ! 

0 how  grandly  cometh  Even, 

Sitting  on  the  mountain  summit, 


A STREAM  S SINGING. 


81 


Purple -vestured,  grave,  and  silent, 
Watching  o’er  the  dewy  valleys, 

Like  a good  king  near  his  end  : — 
I have  labour’d,  I have  govern’d ; 

Now  I feel  the  gathering  shadow 
Of  the  night  that  closes  all  things  : 
And  the  fair  earth  fades  before  me, 
And  the  stars  leap  out  in  heaven, 
While  into  the  infinite  darkness 

Solemn  runs  the  stedfast  stream — 
Onward,  onward,  ceaseless,  fearless, 
Singing  runs  the  eternal  stream. 


6 


A REJECTED  LOYER. 


You  “ never  loved  me,”  Ada.  These  slow  words, 
Dropp’d  softly  from  your  gentle  woman- tongue 
Out  of  your  true  and  kindly  woman-heart, 

Fell,  piercing  into  mine  like  very  swords, 

The  sharper  for  their  kindness.  Yet  no  wrong 
Lies  to  your  charge,  nor  cruelty,  nor  art ; 

Ev’n  while  you  spoke,  I saw  the  tender  tear-drop 
start. 

You  “ never  loved  me.”  No,  you  never  knew, 
You,  with  youth’s  morning  fresh  upon  your 
soul, 


A REJECTED  LOVER. 


83 


What  ’t  is  to  love  : slow,  drop  by  drop,  to  pour 
Our  life’s  whole  essence,  perfumed  through  and 
through 

With  all  the  best  we  have  or  can  control 

For  the  libation — cast  it  down  before 

Your  feet — then  lift  the  goblet,  dry  for  evermore. 

I shall  not  die  as  foolish  lovers  do  : 

A man’s  heart  beats  beneath  this  breast  of  mine, 
The  breast  where — Curse  on  that  fiend- whisper- 
ing 

“ It  might  have  been  ! ” — Ada,  I will  be  true 
Unto  myself — the  self  that  so  loved  thine  : 

May  all  life’s  pain,  like  these  few  tears  that 
spring 

For  me,  glance  off  as  rain-drops  from  my  white 
dove’s  wing ! 


May  you  live  long,  some  good  man’s  bosom- 
flower. 


6 * 


84 


A REJECTED  LOVER. 


And  gather  children  round  your  matron  knees  : 
So,  when  all  this  is  past,  and  you  and  I 
Remember  each  our  youth-days  as  an  hour 
Of  joy — or  anguish, — one,  serene,  at  ease, 

May  come  to  meet  the  other’s  stedfast  eye, 
Thinking,  “ He  loved  me  well ! ” clasp  hands, 
and  so  pass  by. 


A LIVING  PICTURE. 


No,  I ’ll  not  say  your  name.  I have  said  it  now, 
As  you  mine,  first  in  childish  treble,  then 
Up  through  a score  and  more  familiar  years 
Till  baby- voices  mock  us.  Time  may  come 
When  your  tall  sons  look  down  on  our  white 
hair, 

Amused  to  hear  us  call  each  other  thus, 

And  question  us  about  the  old,  old  days, 

The  far-off  days,  the  days  when  we  were  young. 


How  distant  do  they  seem,  and  yet  how  near  ! 


86 


A LIVING  PICTURE 


Now,  as  I lie  and  watch  you  come  and  go, 

With  garden  basket  in  your  hand  ; in  gown 
Just  girdled,  and  brown  curls  that  girl-like  fall, 
And  straw  hat  flapping  in  the  April  breeze, 

I could  forget  this  lapse  of  years — start  up 
Laughing — “ Come,  let ’s  go  play  ! ” 

Well- a- day,  friend, 

Our  play-days  are  all  done. 

Still,  let  us  smile : 

For  as  you  flit  about  your  garden  here 
You  look  like  this  spring  morning : on  your 
lips 

An  unseen  bird  sings  snatches  of  gay  tunes. 
While,  an  embodied  music,  moves  your  step, 
Your  free,  wild,  springy  step,  like  Atala’s, 

Or  Pocahontas,  careless  child  o’  the  sun — 

Those  Indian  beauties  I compare  you  to — - 
I,  still  your  praiser. — 

Nay,  nay,  I ’ll  not  praise, 
Fair  seemeth  fairest,  ignorant  ’tis  fair  : 


A.  LIVING  PICTURE. 


87 


That  light  incredulous  laugh  is  worth  a world  ! 
That  laugh,  with  childish  echoes. 

So  then,  fade, 

Mere  dream.  Come,  true  and  sweet  reality  : 
Come,  dawn  of  happy  wifehood,  motherhood, 
Brighten  to  perfect  noon  ! Come,  peaceful  round 
Of  simple  joys,  fond  duties,  gladsome  cares, 
When  each  full  hour  drops  bliss  with  liberal 
hand 

Yet  leaves  to-morrow  richer  than  to-day. 

Will  you  sit  here  ? the  grass  is  summer- warm. 
Look  at  those  children  making  daisy-chains ; 

So  did  we  too,  do  you  mind  ? That  eldest  lad 
He  has  your  very  mouth.  Yet,  you  will  have ’t 
His  eyes  are  like  his  father’s  ? Perhaps  so  : 
They  could  not  be  more  dark  and  deep  and 
kind. 

Do  you  know,  this  hour  I have  been  fancying 
you 


88 


A LIVING  PICTURE. 


A poet’s  dream,  and  almost  sigh’d  to  think 
There  was  no  poet  to  praise  you — 

Why,  you  ’re  flown 
After  those  mad  elves  in  the  flower-beds  there, 
Ha — ha — you  ’re  no  dream  now. 

Well,  well — so  best ! 

My  eyelids  droop  content  o’er  moisten’d  eyes : 

I would  not  have  you  other  than  you  are. 


LEONORA. 


Leonora,  Leonora, 

How  the  word  rolls — Leonora — 
Lion-like,  in  full -mouth’d  sound, 
Marching  o’er  the  metric  ground 
With  a tawny  tread  sublime — 

So  your  name  moves,  Leonora, 
Down  my  desert  rhyme. 

See  you  pace,  young  Leonora, 
Through  the  alleys  of  the  wood, 
Head  erect,  majestic,  tall, 

The  fit  daughter  of  the  Hall : 


90 


LEONORA. 


Yet  with,  hazel  eyes  declined, 

And  a voice  like  summer  wind, 

And  a meek  mouth,  sweet  and  good, 
Dimpling  ever,  Leonora, 

In  fair  womanhood. 

How  those  smiles  dance,  Leonora, 
As  you  meet  the  pleasant  breeze 
Under  your  ancestral  trees  : 

For  your  heart  is  free  and  pure 
As  this  blue  March  sky  overhead, 
And  in  the  life-path  you  tread, 

All  the  leaves  are  budding,  sure, 

All  the  primroses  are  springing, 

All  the  birds  begin  their  singing — 
?Tis  your  spring-time,  Leonora, 
May  it  long  endure. 

But  it  will  pass,  Leonora  : 

And  the  silent  days  must  fall 


LEONORA. 


91 


When  a change  comes  over  all : 
When  the  last  leaf  downward  flitters, 
And  the  last,  last  sunbeam  glitters 
On  the  terraced  hill-side  cool, 

On  the  peacocks  by  the  pool  : 

When  you  ’ll  walk  along  these  alleys 
With  no  lightsome  foot  that  dallies 
With  the  violets  and  the  moss, — 

But  with  quiet  steps  and  slow, 

And  grave  eyes  that  earthward  grow, 
And  a matron-heart,  inured 
To  all  women  have  endured, — 

Must  endure  and  ever  will, 

All  the  joy  and  all  the  ill, 

All  the  gain  and  all  the  loss — 

Can  you  cheerfully  lay  down 
Careless  girlhood’s  flowery  crown, 
And  thus  take  up,  Leonora, 
Womanhood’s  meek  cross  ? 


92 


LEONORA. 


Ay  ! those  eyes  shine,  Leonora, 
Warm,  and  true,  and  brave,  and  kind 
And  although  I nothing  know 
Of  the  maiden  heart  below, 

I in  them  good  omens  find. 

Go,  enjoy  your  present  hours 
Like  the  birds  and  bees  and  flowers  : 
And  may  summer  days  bestow 
On  you  just  so  much  of  rain, 

Blessed  baptism  of  pain  ! 

As  will  make  your  blossoms  grow. 
May  you  walk,  as  through  life’s  road 
Every  noble  woman  can, — 

With  a pure  heart  before  God, 

And  a true  heart  unto  man  : 

Till  with  this  same  smile  you  wait 
For  the  opening  of  the  Gate 
That  shuts  earth  from  mortal  eyes  ; 
Thus,  at  last,  with  peaceful  heart, 

All  contented  to  depart, 


LEONORA 


93 


Leaving  children’s  children  playing* 
In  these  woods  you  used  to  stray  in, 
You  may  enter,  Leonora, 

Into  paradise. 


PLIGHTED. 


Mine  to  tlie  core  of  the  heart,  my  beauty ! 
Mine,  all  mine,  and  for  love,  not  duty  : 

Love  given  willingly,  full  and  free, 

Love  for  love’s  sake — as  mine  to  thee. 

Duty ’s  a slave  that  keeps  the  keys, 

But  Love,  the  master,  goes  in  and  out 
Of  his  goodly  chambers  with  song  and  shout, 
Just  as  he  please — just  as  he  please. 

Mine,  from  the  dear  head’s  crown,  brown-golden, 
To  the  silken  foot  that ’s  scarce  beholden  : 


PLIGHTED. 


95 


Give  to  a few  friends  hand  or  smile, 

Like  a generous  lady,  now  and  awhile, 

But  the  sanctuary  heart,  that  none  dare 
win, 

Keep  holiest  of  holiest  evermore  : 

The  crowd  in  the  aisles  may  watch  the  door, 
The  high-priest  only  enters  in. 

Mine,  my  own,  without  doubts  or  terrors, 

With  all  thy  goodnesses,  all  thy  errors, 

Unto  me  and  to  me  alone  reveal’ d, 

“ A spring  shut  up,  a fountain  seal’d.” 

Many  may  praise  thee — praise  mine  as 
thine, 

Many  may  love  tnee — I ’ll  love  them  too ; 

But  thy  heart  of  hearts,  pure,  faithful,  and  true, 
Must  be  mine,  mine  wholly,  and  only  mine. 

Mine  ! — God,  I thank  Thee  that  Thou  hast  given 
Something  all  mine  on  this  side  heaven : 


96 


PLIGHTED. 


Something  as  much  myself  to  be 
As  this  my  soul  which  I lift  to  thee  : 

Flesh  of  my  flesh,  bone  of  my  bone, 

Life  of  my  life,  whom  Thou  dost  make 
Two  to  the  world  for  the  world’s  work’s  sake — 
But  each  unto  each,  as  in  Thy  sight,  one . 


MORTALITY. 


“And  we  shall  be  chansred.” 


Ye  dainty  mosses,  lichens  grey, 

Press’d  each  to  each  in  tender  fold, 

And  peacefully  thus,  day  by  day, 
Returning  to  their  mould ; — 

Brown  leaves,  that  with  aerial  grace 

Slip  from  your  branch  like  birds  a- wing, 

Each  leaving  in  the  appointed  place 

Its  bud  of  future  spring  ; — 

7 


98 


MORTALITY. 


If  we,  God’s  conscious  creatures,  knew 
But  half  your  faith  in  our  decay, 

We  should  not  tremble  as  we  do 
When  summon’d  clay  to  clay. 

But  with  an  equal  patience  sweet 
We  should  put  off  this  mortal  gear, 

In  whatsoe’er  new  form  is  meet 
Content  to  re- appear. 

Knowing  each  germ  of  life  He  gives 
Must  have  in  Him  its  source  and  rise, 
Being  that  of  His  being  lives 
May  change,  but  never  dies. 

Ye  dead  leaves,  dropping  soft  and  slow, 
Ye  mosses  green  and  lichens  fair, 

Go  to  your  graves,  as  I will  go, 

For  God  is  also  there. 


LIFE  RETURNING. 


After  War-time. 

0 life,  dear  life,  with  sunbeam  finger  touching 
This  poor  damp  brow,  or  flying  freshly  by 
On  wings  of  mountain  wind,  or  tenderly 

In  links  of  visionary  embraces  clutching 
Me  from  the  yawning  grave— 

Can  I believe  thou  yet  hast  power  to  save  P 

1 see  thee,  0 my  life,  like  phantom  gian 
Stand  on  the  hill-top,  large  against  the  dawn, 
Upon  the  night-black  clouds  a picture  drawn 


100 


LIFE  RETURNING. 


Of  aspect  wonderful,  with  hope  defiant. 
And  so  majestic  grown 
I scarce  discern  the  image  as  my  own. 


Those  mists  furl  off,  and  through  the  vale  re- 
splendent 

I see  the  pathway  of  my  years  prolong ; 

Not  without  labour,  yet  for  labour  strong  : 
Not  without  pain,  but  pain  whose  touch  trans- 
cendent 

* 

By  love’s  divinest  laws 

Heart  unto  heart,  and  all  hearts  upwards, 
draws. 


0 life,  0 love,  your  diverse  tones  bewildering 
Make  silence,  like  two  meeting  waves  of 

sound ; 

1 dream  of  wifely  white  arms,  lisp  of  children — 


LIFE  RETURNING. 


101 


Never  of  ended  wars, 

But  kisses  sealing  honourable  scars. 

No  more  of  battles  ! save  the  combat  glorious 
To  which  all  earth  and  heaven  may  witness 
stand ; 

The  sword  of  the  Spirit  taking  in  my  hand 
I shall  go  forth,  since  in  new  fields  victorious 
The  King  yet  grants  that  I 
His  servant  live,  or  His  good  soldier  die. 


MY  FRIEND. 


My  Friend  wears  a cheerful  smile  of  his  own, 
And  a musical  tongue  has  he ; 

We  sit  and  look  in  each  other’s  face, 

And  are  very  good  company. 

A heart  he  has,  full  warm  and  red 
As  ever  a heart  I see ; 

And  as  long  as  I keep  true  to  him, 

Why,  he  ’ll  keep  true  to  me. 


MY  FRIEND. 


103 


When  the  wind  blows  high  and  the  snow  falls 
fast, 

And  we  hear  the  wassailers’  roar — 

My  Friend  and  I,  with  a right  goodwill 
W e bolt  the  chamber  door  : 

I smile  at  him  and  he  smiles  at  me 
In  a dreamy  calm  profound, 

Till  his  heart  leaps  up  in  the  midst  of  him 
With  a comfortable  sound. 


His  warm  breath  kisses  my  thin  grey  hair 
And  reddens  my  ashen  cheeks  ; 

He  knows  me  better  than  you  all  know, 
Though  never  a word  he  speaks  : — 
Knows  me  as  well  as  some  had  known 
Were  things — not  as  things  be. 

But  hey,  what  matters?  my  Friend  and  I 
Are  capital  company. 


104 


MY  FRIEND. 


At  dead  of  night,  when  the  house  is  still, 

He  opens  his  pictures  fair : 

Faces  that  are,  that  used  to  be, 

And  faces  that  never  were  : 

My  wife  sits  sewing  beside  my  hearth, 

My  little  ones  frolic  wild, 

Though  — Lillian  *s  married  these  twenty 
years, 

And  I never  had  a child. 


But  hey,  what  matters  ? when  those  who  laugh 
May  weep  to-morrow,  and  they 
Who  weep  be  as  those  that  wept  not — all 
Their  tears  long  wiped  away. 

I shall  burn  out,  like  you,  my  Friend, 

With  a bright  warm  heart  and  bold, 

That  flickers  up  to  the  last — then  drops 
Into  quiet  ashes  cold. 


MY  FRIEND. 


105 


And  when  you  flicker  on  me,  my  Friend, 

In  the  old  man’s  elbow-chair, 

Or — something  easier  still,  where  we 
Lie  down,  to  arise  up  fair, 

And  young,  and  happy — why  then,  my  Friend, 
Should  other  friend's  ask  of  me, 

Tell  them  I lived  and  loved  and  died 
In  the  best  of  all  company. 


+ 

A VALENTINE. 


Ye  are  twa  laddies  unco  gleg, 

An’  blithe  an’  bonnie : 

As  licbt  o’  beel  as  Anster’s  Meg ; — 
Gin  ye  ’d  a lassie’s  favor  beg, 

I’  faitb  she  couldna  stir  a peg 
Ance  lookin’  on  ye  ! 

He ’s  a douce  wiselike  callant — Jim : 
Of  wit  aye  ready. 


A VALENTINE. 


10 


Cuts  aff  ane’s  sentence,  t’  ither’s  limb, 

An’  whiles  he ’s  daft  and  whiles  he  ’s  grim  ; 
But  brains  P — wha ’s  got  the  like  of  him 
In ’s  wee  bit  heidie  ? 

Dear  laddie  wi’  the  curlin’  hair, 

Gentlest  of  ony : 

That  gies  kind  looks  an’  speeches  fair 
To  dour  auld  wives  as  lassies  rare, — 

I ken  a score  o’  lads  an’  mair, 

But  nane  like  Johnnie  ! 

And  gin  ye  learn  the  way  to  woo, 

Hae  sweethearts  mony, 

0 laddie,  never  say  ye  loe, 

An’  gie  fause  coin  for  siller  true ; 

A lassie’s  sair  heart ’s  naething  new, — 
Mind  o’  that,  Johnnie. 

An’  dinna  change  your  luve  sae  fast 
For  ilk  face  bonnie, 


108 


A VALENTINE. 


Lest  waefu’  want  track  wilfu’  waste, 

And  a’  your  youthfu’  years  lang  past, 

Ye  get  the  crookit  stick  at  last — 

Ochone,  puir  Johnnie  ! 

But  callants  baith,  tak  tent,  and  when 
Bright  e’en  hae  won  ye^ 

Tak  ye  your  jo — and  keep  her ; then 
Be  faithful  as  ye  ’re  fond,  ye  ken, 

Or — gang  your  gate  like  honest  men, 
Young  Jim  and  Johnnie 

Sae  when  auld  Time  his  crookit  claw 
Sail  lay  upon  ye, 

When,  Jim,  your  feet  that  dance  sae  braw 
Are  no  the  lightest  in  the  ha’, 

An’  a’  your  curly  haffets  fa’, 

My  winsome  Johnnie, — 

May  each  his  ain  warm  ingle  view, 

Cosie  as  ony : 


A VALENTINE. 


109 


A gudewife  sonsie,  leal  and  true, 

O’  bonnie  dochters  not  a few, 

An’  lads — sic  lads  as  ye  ?re  the  noo — 
Dear  Jim  and  Johnnie  ! 


GRACE  OF  CLYDESIDE. 

Ah,  little  Grace  of  tlie  golden  locks. 

The  hills  rise  fair  on  the  shores  of  Clyde. 

As  the  merry  waves  wear  out  these  rocks 
She  wears  my  heart  out,  glides  past  and  mocks  . 
But  heaven’s  gate  ever  stands  open  wide. 

The  boat  goes  softly  along,  along, 

Like  a river  of  life  glows  the  amber  Clyde ; 


GRACE  OF  CLYDESIDE. 


Ill 


Her  voice  floats  near  me  like  angels’  song, — 
Ah,  sweet  love-death,  but  thy  pangs  are  strong  ! 
Though  heaven’s  gate  ever  stands  open  wide. 

We  walk  by  the  shore  and  the  stars  shine  bright, 
But  coldly,  above  the  solemn  Clyde : 

Her  arm  touches  mine — her  laugh  rings  light — 
One  hears  my  silence  : His  merciful  night 
Hides  me — Can  heaven  be  open  wide  P 

I ever  was  but  a dreamer,  Grace  : 

As  the  grey  hills  watch  o’er  the  sunny  Clyde, 
Standing  far  off,  each  in  his  place, 

I watch  your  young  life’s  beautiful  race, 

Apart — until  heaven  be  opened  wide. 

And  sometimes  when  in  the  twilight  balm 
The  hills  grow  purple  along  the  Clyde, 

The  waves  flow  softly  and  very  calm, 

I hear  all  nature  sing  this  one  psalm, 

That  “ heaven’s  gate  ever  stands  open  wide.” 


112 


GRACE  OF  CLYDESIDE. 


So,  happy  Grace,  with  your  spirit  free, 

Laugh  on  ! life  is  sweet  on  the  banks  of  Clyde 
This  is  no  blame  unto  thee  or  me ; 

Only  God  saw  it  could  not  be, 

Therefore  His  heaven  stands  open  wide. 


TO  A BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN. 


“ A daughter  of  the  gods  : divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair.” 


Surely,  dame  Nature  made  you  in  some  dream 
Of  old-world  women — Chriemhild,  or  bright 
Aslauga,  or  Boadicea  fierce  and  fair, 

Or  Berengaria  as  she  rose,  her  lips 

Yet  ruddy  from  the  poison  that  anoints 

Her  memory  still,  the  queen  of  queenly  wives. 


114 


TO  A BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN. 


I marvel,  who  will  crown  you  wife,  you  grand 
And  goodly  creature  ! who  will  mount  supreme 
The  empty  chariot  of  your  maiden  heart, 

Curb  the  strong  will  that  leaps  and  foams  and 
chafes 

Still  masterless,  and  guide  you  safely  home 
Unto  the  golden  gate,  where  quiet  sits 
Grave  Matronhood,  with  gracious,  loving  eyes. 


What  eyes  you  have,  you  wild  gazelle  o’  the  plain, 
You  fierce  hind  of  the  forest ! now  they  flash, 
Now  glow,  now  in  their  own  dark  down-dropt 
shade 

Conceal  themselves  a moment,  as  some  though  t, 
Too  brief  to  be  a feeling,  flits  across 
The  April  cloudland  of  your  careless  soul — 
There — that  light  laugh — and  ?tis  again  full 
day. 


TO  A BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN. 


115 


Would  I could  paint  you,  line  by  line,  ere  Time 
Touches  the  gorgeous  picture  ! your  ripe  mouth, 
Your  white  arch’d  throat,  your  stature  like  to 
Saul’s 

Among  his  brethren,  yet  so  fitly  framed 
In  such  harmonious  symmetry,  we  say, 

As  of  a cedar  among  common  trees, 

Never  “ How  tall ! ” but  only  “ 0 how  fair  ! ” 


Who  made  you  fair  ? moulded  you  in  the  shape 
That  poets  dream  of ; sent  you  forth  to  men 
His  caligrapn  inscribed  on  every  curve 
Of  your  brave  form  ? 

Is  it  written  on  your  soul  ? 

— I know  not. 

Woman,  upon  whom  is  laid 
Heaven’s  own  sign-manual,  Beauty,  mock  heaven 
not ! 

Reverence  thy  loveliness — the  outward  type 


116 


TO  A BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN. 


Of  things  we  understand  not,  nor  behold 
But  as  in  a glass,  darkly  ; wear  it  thou 
With  awful  gladness,  grave  humility, 

That  not  contemns,  nor  boasts,  nor  is  ashamed, 
But  lifts  its  face  up  prayerfully  to  heaven, — 
“Thou  who  hast  made  me,  make  me  worthy 


MARY’S  WEDDING. 


February  25th,  1851. 


You  are  to  be  married,  Mary, 

This  hour  as  I wakeful  lie 
In  the  dreamy  dawn  of  the  morning, 
Your  wedding  hour  draws  nigh  ; 
Miles  off,  you  are  rising,  dressing, 
Your  bride  maidens  gay  among, 

In  the  same  old  rooms  we  played  in, — 
You  and  I,  when  we  were  young. 


118 


mary’s  wedding. 


Those  bridemaids — they  were  our  playmates 
Those  known  rooms,  every  wall, 

Could  speak  of  our  childish  frolics, 

Loves,  jealousies,  great  and  small : 

Do  you  mind  how  pansies  changed  we, 

And  smiled  at  the  word  “ forget  P ” — 

’T  was  a girl’s  romance  : yet  somehow 
I have  kept  my  pansy  vet. 

Do  you  mind  our  poems  written 
Together  ? our  dreams  of  fame — 

And  of  love — how  we ’d  share  all  secrets 
When  that  sweet  mystery  came  ? 

It  is  no  mystery  now,  Mary  ; 

It  was  unveiled,  year  by  year, 

Till — this  is  your  marriage  morning  ; 

And  I rest  quiet  here. 

I cannot  call  up  your  face,  Mary, 

The  face  of  the  bride  to-day  : 


mary’s  wedding. 


119 


You  have  outgrown  my  knowledge, 

The  years  have  so  slipp’d  away. 

I see  but  your  girlish  likeness, 

Brown  eyes  and  brown  falling  hair 
Grod  knows,  I did  love  you  dearly, 

And  was  proud  that  you  were  fair. 

Many  speak  my  name,  Mary, 

While  yours  in  home’s  silence  lies  : 
The  future  I read  in  toil’s  guerdon, 

You  will  read  in  your  children’s  eyes : 
The  past — the  same  past  with  either — 

Is  to  you  a delightsome  scene, 

But  I cannot  trace  it  clearly 

For  the  graves  that  rise  between. 

I am  glad  you  are  happy,  Mary  ! 

These  tears,  could  you  see  them  fall, 
Would  show,  though  you  have  forgotten, 
I have  remembered  all. 


120 


mary’s  wedding. 


And  though  my  cup  is  half  empty 
While  yours  is  all  running  o’er, 
Heaven  keep  you  its  sweetness,  Mary, 
Brimming  for  evermore. 


BETWEEN  TWO  WORLDS. 


Parting  for  Australia. 

Here  sitting  by  the  fire 
I aspire,  love,  I aspire — 

Not  to  that  “ other  world  ” of  your  fond  dreams, 
But  one  as  nigh  and  nigher, 

Compared  to  which  your  real  unreal  seems. 

Together  as  to-night, 

In  our  light,  love,  in  our  light 
Of  reunited  joy  appears  no  shade  : 

From  this  our  hope’s  reach’d  height 
All  things  seem  possible  and  level  made. 


122 


BETWEEN  TWO  WORLDS. 


Therefore  we  sit  and  view — 

I and  you,  love,  I and  you — 

That  wondrous  valley  over  southern  seas, 
Where  in  a country  new 
You  will  make  for  me  a sweet  nest  of  ease  ; 


Where  I,  your  poor  tired  bird, 

(Nothing  stirred  ? Love,  nothing  stirred  ?) 
May  fold  her  wings  and  be  no  more  distrest : 
Where  troubles  may  be  heard 
Like  outside  winds  at  night  which  deepen  rest. 


Where  in  green  pastures  wide 
We  T1  abide,  love,  we  ’ll  abide, 

And  keep  content  our  patriarchal  flocks, 

Till  at  our  aged  side 

Leap  our  young  brown-faced  shepherds  of  the 
rocks. 


BETWEEN  TWO  WORLDS. 


123 


Ah,  tale  that ’s  easy  told ! 

(Hold  my  hand,  love,  tighter  hold.) 

What  if  this  faqje  of  mine,  which  you  think  fair — 
If  it  should  ne’er  grow  old, 

Nor  matron  cap  cover  this  maiden  hair  ? 


What  if  this  silver  ring 
(Loose  it  clings,  love,  yet  does  cling :) 
Should  ne’er  be  changed  for  any  other  ? nay, 
This  very  hand  I fling 

About  your  neck  should  — Hush  ! to-day ’s  to- 
day: 


To-morrow  is — ah,  whose  ? 

You  ’ll  not  lose,  love,  you  ’ll  not  lose 
This  hand  I pledged,  if  never  a wife’s  hand, 
For  tender  household  use, 

Led  by  yours  fearless  into  a far,  far  land. 


124 


BETWEEN  TWO  WORLDS. 


Kiss  me  and  do  not  grieve ; 

I believe,  love,  I believe 
That  He  who  holds  the  measure  of  our  days, 
And  did  thus  strangely  weave 
Our  opposite  lives  together,  to  His  praise — 

He  never  will  divide 

Us  so  wide,  love,  us  so  wide : 

But  will,  whate’er  befalls  us,  clearly  show 
That  those  in  Him  allied 
In  life  or  death  are  nearer  than  they  knowT. 


COUSIN  ROBERT. 


0 cousin  Robert,  far  away 
Among  the  lands  of  gold, 

How  many  years  since  we  two  met  ? 
You  would  not  like  it  told. 

0 cousin  Robert,  buried  deep 
Amid  your  bags  of  gold — 

1 thought  I saw  you  yesternight 
Just  as  you  were  of  old. 


126 


COUSIN  ROBERT. 


You  own  whole  leagues — I half  a rood 
Behind  my  cottage  door ; 

You  have  your  lacs  of  gold  rupees, 

And  I my  children  four ; 

Your  tall  barques  dot  the  dangerous  seas, 
My  “ ship  ’s  come  home  ” — to  rest 

Safe  anchor’d  from  the  storms  of  life 
Upon  one  faithful  breast. 

And  it  would  cause  no  start  or  sigh, 

Nor  thought  of  doubt  or  blame, 

If  I should  teach  our  little  son 
His  cousin  Robert’s  name. — 

That  name,  however  wide  it  rings, 

I oft  think,  when  alone, 

I rather  would  have  seen  it  graved 
Upon  a churchyard  stone — 


COUSIN  ROBERT. 


12 


Upon  the  white  sunshiny  stone 
Where  cousin  Alick  lies  : 

Ah,  sometimes,  woe  to  him  that  lives ! 
Happy  is  he  that  dies  ! 

0 Robert,  Robert,  many  a tear — 

Though  not  the  tears  of  old — 

Drops,  thinking  of  your  face  last  night, 
Your  hand’s  remember’d  fold ; 

A young  man’s  face,  so  like,  so  like 
Our  mothers’  faces  fair  : 

A young  man’s  hand,  so  firm  to  clasp, 

So  resolute  to  dare. 

1 thought  you  good — I wish’d  you  great ; 
You  were  my  hope,  my  pride : 

To  know  you  good,  to  make  you  great, 

I once  had  happy  died. 


128 


COUSIN  ROBERT. 


To  tear  the  plague-spot  from  your  heart, 
Place  honour  on  your  brow, 

See  old  age  come  in  crowned  peace — 

I almost  would  die  now ! 

Would  give — all  that  ’s  now  mine  to  give 
To  have  you  sitting  there, 

The  cousin  Robert  of  my  youth — 

Though  beggar’d,  with  grey  hair. 

0 Robert,  Robert,  some  that  live 
Are  dead,  long  ere  they  are  old ; 

Better  the  pure  heart  of  our  youth 
Than  palaces  of  gold ; 

Better  the  blind  faith  of  our  youth 
Than  doubt,  which  all  truth  braves 

Better  to  mourn,  God’s  children  dear, 
Than  laugh,  the  devil’s  slaves. 


COUSIN  ROBERT. 


129 


0 Robert,  Robert,  life  is  sweet, 

And  love  is  boundless  gain  ; 

Yet  if  I mind  of  you,  my  lieart 
Is  stabb’d  with  sudden  pain  : 

And  as  in  peace  this  Christmas  eve 
I close  our  quiet  doors, 

And  kiss  “ good  night  ” on  sleeping  heads — 
Such  bonnie  curls, — like  yours: 

1 fall  upon  my  bended  knees 

With  sobs  that  choke  each  word ; — 

“ On  those  who  err  and  are  deceived 
Have  mercy , 0 good  Lord  ! ” 


9 


AT  LAST. 


Down,  down  like  a pale  leaf  dropping 
Under  an  autumn  sky, 

My  love  dropp’d  into  my  bosom 
Quietly,  quietly. 

There  was  not  a ray  of  sunshine 
And  not  a sound  in  the  air, 

As  she  trembled  into  my  bosom — 

My  love,  no  longer  fair. 


AT  LAST. 


131 


All  year  round  in  lier  beauty 
She  dwelt  on  the  tree  top  high : 
She  danced  in  the  summer  breezes. 
She  laugh’d  to  the  smnmer  sky. 


I lay  so  low  in  the  grass-dews, 

She  sat  so  high  above, 

She  never  wist  of  my  longing, 

She  never  dream’d  of  my  love. 

But  wdien  winds  laid  bare  her  dwelling, 
And  her  heart  could  find  no  rest, 

I call’d — and  she  flutter’d  downward 
Into  my  faithful  breast. 

I know  that  my  love  is  fading ; 

I know  I cannot  fold 
Her  fragrance  from  the  frost- blight, 
Her  beauty  from  the  mould : 


132 


AT  LAST. 


But  a little,  little  longer 
She  shall  contented  lie, 

And  wither  away  in  the  sunshine 
Silently,  silently. 

Come  when  thou  wilt,  grim  winter, 
My  year  is  crown’d  and  blest 
If  when  my  love  is  dying 
She  die  upon  my  breast. 


THE  AURORA  ON  THE  CLYDE. 


September,  1850. 

Ah  me,  how  heavily  the  night  comes  down, 
Heavily,  heavily  : 

Fade  the  curved  shores,  the  blue  hills  serried 
throng, 

The  darkening  waves  we  oar’d  in  light  and 
song  : 

Joy  melts  from  us  as  sunshine  from  the  sky, 
And  Patience  with  sad  eye 
Takes  up  her  staff  and  drops  her  wither’d 


crown. 


134 


THE  AURORA  ON  THE  CLYDE. 


Our  small  boat  heaves  upon  the  heaving  river, 
Wearily,  wearily  : 

The  flickering  shore-lights  come  and  go  by  fits ; 
Towering  twixt  earth  and  heaven  dusk  silence 
sits, 

Death  at  her  feet ; above,  infinity ; 

Between,  slow  drifting  by, 

Our  tiny  boat,  like  life,  floats  onward  ever. 

Pale,  mournful  hour, — too  early  night  that  falls 
Drearily,  drearily, 

Come  not  so  soon  ! Return,  return,  bright  day,  # 
Kind  voices,  smiles,  blue  mountains,  sunny  bay  ! 
In  vain  ! Life’s  dial  cannot  backward  go  : 

The  dark  time  comes.  Lie  low 
And  listen,  soul.  Oft  in  the  night,  God  calls. 

* * # * * 

Light,  light  on  the  black  river ! How  it 
gleams, 

Solemnly,  solemnly  ! 


THE  AURORA  ON  THE  CLYDE. 


135 


Like  troops  of  pale  ghosts  oil  their  pensive 
inarch, 

Treading  the  far  heavens  in  a luminous  arch, 
Each  after  each  : phantasms  serene  and  high 
From  that  eternity 

Where  all  earth’s  sharpest  woes  grow  dim  as 
dreams. 

Let  us  drink  in  the  glory,  full  and  whole, 
Silently,  silently  : 

Gaze,  till  it  lulls  all  pain,  all  vain  desires  : — 
See  now,  that  radiant  bow  of  pillar’d  fires 
Spanning  the  hills  like  dawn,  until  they  lie 
In  soft  tranquillity, 

And  all  night’s  ghastly  glooms  asunder  roll. 

Look,  look  again  ! the  vision  changes  fast, 
Gloriously,  gloriously : 

That  was  heaven’s  gate  with  its  illumined  road, 
But  this  is  heaven  ; the  very  throne  of  God, 


136  THE  AURORA  ON  THE  CLYDE. 

Hung  with  flame  curtains  of  celestial  dye 
Waving  perpetually, 

While  to  and  fro  innumerous  angels  haste. 

I see  no  more  the  stream,  the  boat  that  moves 
Mournfully,  mournfully : 

And  we  who  sit,  poor  prisoners  of  clay : 

It  is  not  night,  it  is  immortal  day, 

Where  the  One  Presence  fills  eternity, 

And  each,  His  servant  high, 

For  ever  praises  and  for  ever  loves. 

0 soul,  forget  the  weight  that  drags  thee  down 
Deathfully,  deathfully : 

Know  thyself.  As  this  glory  wraps  thee  round, 
Let  it  melt  off  the  chains  that  long  have  bound 
Thy  strength.  Stand  free^ before  thy  God  and 
cry— 

“ My  Father,  here  am  I : 

Give  to  me  as  Thou  wilt — first  cross,  then 

>5 


crown. 


AX  AURORA  BOREALIS. 


Roslin  Castle. 

0 strange  soft  gleam,  O ghostly  dawn 
That  never  brightens  unto  day  ; 

Ere  earth’s  mirk  pall  once  more  be  drawn 
Let  us  look  out  beyond  the  grey. 

It  is  just  midnight  by  the  clock— 

There  is  no  sound  on  glen  or  hill, 

The  moaning  linn  adown  its  rock 

Leaps,  but  the  woods  lie  dark  and  still. 


138 


AN  AUK  OK  A BOREALIS. 


Austere  against  the  kindling  sky 
Yon  broken  turret  blacker  grows ; 

Harsh  light,  to  show  remorselessly 
Ruins,  night  hid  in  kind  repose ! 

Nay,  beauteous  light,  nay,  light  that  fills 
The  whole  heaven  like  a dream  of  morn, 
As  waking  upon  northern  hills 

She  smiles  to  find  herself  new-born, — 

Strange  light,  I know  thou  wilt  not  stay, 
That  many  an  hour  must  come  and  go, 
Before  the  pale  November  day 

Break  in  the  east,  forlorn  and  slow. 

Yet  blest  one  gleam — one  gleam  like  this, 
When  all  heaven  brightens  in  our  sight, 
And  the  long  night  that  was  and  is 

o o 

And  shall  be,  vanishes  in  light : 


AN  AURORA  BOREALIS. 


139 


O blest  one  hour  like  this  ! to  rise 

And  see  grief's  shadows  backward  roll  ; 
While  bursts  on  unaccustomed  eyes 
The  glad  Aurora  of  the  soul. 


AT  THE  LINN-SIDE. 


Roslin. 

0 living,  living  water, 

So  busy  and  so  bright, 

Aye  flashing  in  the  morning  beams, 
And  S3unding  through  the  night ; 
0 golden- shining  water — 

Would  God  that  I might  be 
A vocal  message  from  His  mouth 
Into  the  world,  like  thee ! 


AT  THE  LINN- SIDE. 


141 


0 merry,  merry  water, 

Which  nothing  e’er  affrays  ; 

And  as  it  pours  from  rock  to  rock 
Nothing  e’er  stops  or  stays  ; 

But  past  cool  heathery  hollows 
And  gloomy  pools  it  flows ; 

Past  crags  that  fain  would  shut  it  in 
Leaps  through— and  on  it  goes. 

0 fresh’ ning,  sparkling  water, 

0 voice  that’s  never  still, 

Though  winter  lays  her  dead- white  hand 
On  brae  and  glen  and  hill ; 

Though  no  leaf’s  left  to  flutter 
In  woods  all  mute  and  hoar, 

Yet  thou,  0 river,  night  and  day 
Thou  runnest  evermore. 

No  foul  thing  can  pollute  thee  ; 

Thy  swiftness  casts  aside 


142 


AT  THE  LINN-SIDE. 


All  ill,  like  a good  heart  and  true, 

However  sorely  tried. 

0 living,  living  water, 

So  fresh  and  bright  and  free — 

Heaven  lead  us  through  this  changeful  world 
For  ever  pure,  like  thee  ! 


A HYMN  FOR  CHRISTMAS  MORNING. 
1S55. 


It  is  the  Christmas-time  : 

And  up  and  down  twixt  heaven  and  earth, 
In  glorious  grief  and  solemn  mirth, 

The  shining  angels  climb. 

And  unto  everything 

That  lives  and  moves,  for  heaven,  on  earth, 
With  equal  share  of  grief  and  mirth, — 

The  shining  angels  sing  : — 


141  A HYMN  FOR  CHRISTMAS-MORNING. 


“ Babes  new-born,  undefilea, 

In  lowly  hut,  or  mansion  wide — 

Sleep  safely  through  this  Christmas-tide 
When  Jesus  was  a child. 

“ 0 young  men,  bold  and  free, 

In  peopled  town,  or  desert  grim, 

When  ye  are  tempted  like  to  Him, 

‘ The  man  Christ  J esus  ’ see. 

“ Poor  mothers,  with  your  hoard 
Of  endless  love  and  countless  pain — 
Remember  all  her  grief,  her  gain, 

The  Mother  of  the  Lord. 

“ Mourners,  half  blind  with  woe, 

Look  up  ! One  standeth  in  this  place  ; 
And  by  the  pity  of  His  face 
The  Man  of  Sorrows  know. 


A HYMN  FOR  CHRISTMAS-MORNING.  145 


“ Wanderers  in  far  countrie, 

0 think  of  Him  who  came,  forgot, 

To  His  own,  and  they  received  Him  not — 
Jesus  of  Galilee. 

“ 0 all  ye  who  have  trod 
The  winepress  of  affliction,  lay 
Your  hearts  before  His  heart  this  day — 
Behold  the  Christ  of  God  ! ” 


10 


A PSALM  FOE  NEW  YEAK’S  EYE. 


1855. 

A Friend  stands  at  the  door ; 

In  either  tight-closed  hand 
Hiding  rich  gifts,  three  hundred  and  threescore 
Waiting  to  strew  them  daily  o’er  the  land 
Even  as  seed  the  sower. 

Each  drops  he,  treads  it  in  and  passes  by : 

It  cannot  be  made  fruitful  till  it  die. 

0 good  New  Year,  we  clasp 
This  warm  shut  hand  of  thine, 

Loosing  for  ever,  with  half  sigh,  half  gasp, 

That  which  from  ours  falls  like  dead  fingers 
twine : 


A PSALM  FOR  NEW  YEAR’S  EYE.  147 


Ay,  whether  fierce  its  grasp 

Has  been,  or  gentle,  having  been,  we  know 

That  it  was  blessed  : let  the  Old  Year  go. 

0 New  Year,  teach  ns  faith ! 

The  road  of  life  is  hard : 

When  our  feet  bleed  and  scourging  winds  us 
scathe, 

Point  thou  to  Him  whose  visage  was  more 
marr’d 

Than  any  man’s  : who  saith, 

“Make  straight  paths  for  your  feet” — and  to 
the  opprest — 

“ Come  ye  to  Me,  and  I will  give  you  rest.” 


Yet  hang  some  lamp-like  hope 

Above  this  unknown  way, 

Kind  year,  to  give  our  spirits  freer  scope, 

And  our  hands  strength  to  work  while  it  is  day. 
10  * 


148  A PSALM  FOR,  NEW  YEARNS  EYE. 

But  if  that  way  must  slope 

Tombward,  0 bring  before  our  fading  eyes 

The  lamp  of  life,  the  Hope  that  never  dies. 

Comfort  our  souls  with  love, — 

Love  of  all  human  kind ; 

Love  special,  close — in  which  like  shelter’d  dove 

Each  weary  heart  its  own  safe  nest  may  find ; 

And  love  that  turns  above 

Adoringly ; contented  to  resign 

All  loves,  if  need  be,  for  the  Love  Divine. 

Friend,  come  thou  like  a friend, 

And  whether  bright  thy  face, 

Or  dim  with  clouds  we  cannot  comprehend, — 
We  ’ll  hold  out  patient  hands,  each  in  his  place, 
And  trust  thee  to  the  end. 

Knowing  thou  leadest  onwards  to  those  spheres 
Where  there  are  neither  days,  nor  months,  nor 
years. 


FAITHFUL  IN  VANITY  FAIR. 


Suggested  by  one  of  David  Scotty  illustrations  of  “ Pilgrim’s 
Progress.” 


I. 

The  great  human  whirlpool — ’tis  seething  and 
seething : 

On ! No  time  for  shrieking  out — scarcely  for 
breathing  : 

All  toiling  and  moiling,  some  feebler,  some 
bolder, 

But  each  sees  a fiend-face  grm  over  his  shoulder : 
Thus  merrily  live  they  in  Vanity  fair. 


150 


FAITHFUL  IN  VANITY  FAIR. 


The  great  human  caldron — it  boils  ever  higher  : 
Some  drowning,  some  sinking;  while  some, 
stealing  nigher, 

Athirst,  come  and  lean  o’er  its  outermost  verges, 
Or  touch,  as  a child’s  feet  touch,  timorous,  the 
surges — 

One  plunge — lo  ! more  souls  swamp’d  in  Va- 
nity fair. 

Let ’s  live  while  we  live ; for  to-morrow  all ’s  over : 
Drink  deep,  drunkard  bold  ; and  kiss  close,  mad- 
den’d lover ; 

Smile,  hypocrite,  smile  ; it  is  no  such  hard  labour, 
While  each  stealthy  hand  stabs  the  heart  of  his 
neighbour — 

Faugh  ! Fear  not : we  ’ve  no  hearts  in  Vanity 
fair. 

The  mad  crowd  divides  and  then  soon  closes  after : 
Afar  towers  the  pyre.  Through  the  shouting  and 
laughter 


FAITHFUL  IN  VANITY  FAIR. 


151 


“ What  new  sport  is  this  ? ” gasps  a reveller, 
half  turning. — 

“ One  Faithful,  meek  fool,  who  is  led  to  the 
burning, 

lie  cumber’d  us  sorely  in  Vanity  fair. 

“ A dreamer,  who  held  every  man  for  a brother  ; 

A coward,  who,  smit  on  one  cheek,  gave  the  other ; 

A fool,  whose  blind  soul  took  as  truth  all  our 
lying,  . 

Too  simple  to  live,  so  best  fitted  for  dying : 

Sure,  such  are  best  swept  out  of  Vanity  fair.” 


II. 

Silence  ! though  the  flames  arise  and  quiver  : 
Silence  ! though  the  crowd  howls  on  for  ever  : 
Silence  ! Through  this  fiery  purgatory 
God  is  leading  up  a soul  to  glory. 


152 


FAITHFUL  IN  VANITY  FAIR. 


See,  the  white  lips  with  no  moans  are  trembling, 
Hate  of  foes  or  plaint  of  friends’  dissembling ; 

If  sighs  come — his  patient  prayers  outlive  them, 
“ Lord — these  know  not  what  they  do.  Forgive 
them ! ” 

Thirstier  still  the  roaring  flames  are  glowing ; 
Fainter  in  his  ear  the  laughter  growing ; 

Brief  will  last  the  fierce  and  fiery  trial, 

Angel  welcomes  drown  the  earth  denial. 

Now  the  amorous  death-fires,  gleaming  ruddy, 
Clasp  him  close.  Down  drops  the  quivering  body, 
While  through  harmless  flames  ecstatic  flying 
Shoots  the  beauteous  soul.  This,  this  is  dying . 

Lo,  the  opening  sky  with  splendour  rifted; 

Lo,  the  palm-branch  for  his  hands  uplifted  : 

Lo,  the  immortal  chariot,  cloud-descending, 

And  its  legion’d  angels  close  attending ; 


FAITHFUL  IN  VANITY  FAIR. 


153 


Let  his  poor  dust  mingle  with  the  embers 
While  the  crowds  sweep  on  and  none  remembers  : 
Saints  unnumbered  through  the  Infinite  Glory, 
Praising  God,  recount  the  martyr’s  story 


HER  LIKENESS. 


A girl,  who  has  so  many  wilful  ways 

She  would  have  caused  Job’s  patience  to  for- 
sake him ; 

Yet  is  so  rich  in  all  that ’s  girlhood’s  praise, 

Did  Job  himself  upon  her  goodness  gaze, 

A little  better  she  would  surely  make  him. 

Yet  is  this  girl  I sing  in  nought  uncommon, 
And  very  far  from  angel  yet,  I trow. 

Her  faults,  her  sweetnesses,  are  purely  human ; 
Yet  she ’s  more  loveable  as  simple  woman 
Than  any  one  diviner  that  I know. 


HER  LIKENESS. 


155 


Therefore  I wish  that  she  may  safely  keep 
This  womanhede,  and  change  not,  only  grow ; 
From  maid  to  matron,  youth  to  age,  may  creep, 
And  in  perennial  blessedness,  still  reap 

On  every  hand  of  that  which  she  doth  sow. 


ONLY  A DREAM. 


“ I waked — she  fled : and  day  brought  hack  my  night.” 

Methought  I saw  thee  yesternight 
Sit  by  me  in  the  olden  guise, 

The  white  robes  and  the  palm  foregone, 
Weaving  instead  of  amaranth  crown 
A web  of  mortal  dyes. 

I cried,  “ Where  hast  thou  been  so  long  ? ” 
(The  mild  eyes  turn’d  and  mutely  smiled :) 
“ Why  dwellest  thou  in  far-off  lands  ? 

What  is  that  web  within  thy  hands  ? ” 

I work  for  thee,  my  child.” 


ONLY  A DREAM. 


15 


I clasp’d  thee  in  my  arms  and  wept ; 

I kiss’d  thee  oft  with  passion  wild : 

I pour’d  fond  questions,  tender  blame ; 

Still  thy  sole  answer  was  the  same, — 

“I  work  for  thee,  my  child.” 

“ Come  and  walk  with  me  as  of  old.” 

Then  earnest  thou,  silent  as  before  ; 

We  pass’d  along  that  churchyard  way 
We  used  to  tread  each  sabbath  day, 

Till  one  trod  earth  no  more. 

I felt  thy  hand  upon  my  arm, 

Beside  me  thy  meek  face  I saw, 

Yet  through  the  sweet  familiar  grace 
A something  spiritual  could  trace 
That  left  a nameless  awe. 

Trembling  I said,  “ Long  years  have  pass’d 
Since  thou  wert  from  my  side  beguiled ; 


158 


ONLY  A DREAM. 


Now  thou ’rt  return’d  and  all  shall  be 
As  was  before.” — Half-pensively 

Thou  answered’ st — “Nay,  my  child.” 

I pleaded  sore  : “ Hast  thou  forgot 
The  love  wherewith  we  loved  of  old, — 
The  long  sweet  days  of  converse  blest, 
The  nights  of  slumber  on  thy  breast, — 
Art  thou  to  me  grown  cold  P ” 

There  beam’d  on  me  those  eyes  of  heaven 
That  wept  no  more,  but  ever  smiled ; 

“ Love  only  is  love  in  that  Home 
Where  I abide — where,  till  thou  come, 

I work  for  thee,  my  child.” 

If  from  my  sight  thou  passed’ st  then, 

Or  if  my  sobs  the  dream  exiled, 

I know  not : but  in  memory  clear 
I seem  these  strange  words  still  to  hear, 


“ 1 10 or k for  thee,  my  child .” 


TO  MY  GODCHILD  ALICE. 


Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

My  new-christen’d  baby  Alice, 

Can  there  ever  rhymes  be  found 
To  express  my  wishes  for  thee 
In  a silvery  flowing,  worthy 
Of  that  silvery  sound  ? 

B6nnie  Alice,  Lady  Alice, 

Sure,  this  sweetest  name  must  be 
A true  omen  to  thee,  Alice, 

Of  a life’s  long  melody. 


160 


TO  MY  GODCHILD  ALICE. 


Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

Mayst  thou  prove  a golden  chalice, 
Fill’d  with  holiness  like  wine  : 
With  rich  blessings  running  o’er, 

Yet  replenish’d  evermore 
From  a fount  divine : 

Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

When  this  future  comes  to  thee, 

In  thy  young  life’s  brimming  chalice 
Keep  some  drops  of  balm  for  me ! 


Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

Mayst  thou  grow  a goodly  palace, 
Fitly  framed  from  roof  to  floors, 
Pure  unto  the  inmost  centre, 

While  high  thoughts  like  angels  enter 
At  the  open  doors  : 


TO  MY  GODCHILD  ALICE. 


161 


Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

When  this  beauteous  sight  I see, 

In  thy  woman-heart’s  wide  palace 
Keep  one  nook  of  love  for  me. 

Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, — 

Sure  the  verse  halts  out  of  malice 
To  the  thoughts  it  feebly  bears, 

And  thy  name’s  soft  echoes,  ranging 
From  quaint  rhyme  to  rhyme,  are  changing 
Into  silent  prayers. 

Giod  be  with  thee,  little  Alice ; 

Of  His  bounteousness  may  He 
Fill  the  chalice,  build  the  palace, 

Here,  unto  eternity ! 


11 


EIGHTEEN  SONNETS. 


RESIGNING. 

Yu  Poor  Heart,  what  bitter  words  we  speak 
When  God  speaks  of  resigning ! 99 

Children,  that  lay  their  pretty  garlands  by 
So  piteously,  yet  with  a humble  mind ; 

Sailors,  who,  when  their  ship  rocks  in  the  wind, 
Cast  out  her  freight  with  half- averted  eye, 
Riches  for  life  exchanging  solemnly, 

Lest  they  should  never  reach  the  wish’d-for 
shore ; — 

Thus  we,  0 Father,  standing  Thee  before, 

Do  lay  down  at  Thy  feet  without  a sigh, 

Each  after  each,  our  precious  things  and  rare, 
Our  dear  heart- jewels  and  our  garlands  fair. 
Perhaps  Thou  knewest  that  the  flowers  would  die, 
And  the  long- voyaged  hoards  be  found  but  dust, 
So  took’st  them,  while  unchanged.  To  Thee  we 
trust 

For  incorruptible  treasure  : Thou  art  just. 


SAINT  ELIZABETH  OF  BOHEMIA. 


Would  that  we  two  were  lying 
Beneath  the  churchyard  sod, 

With  our  limbs  at  rest  in  the  green  earth’s  breast, 

And  our  souls  at  home  with  God. 

Kingsley’s  Saint’s  Tragedy, 


I. 

I never  lay  me  down  to  sleep  at  night 
But  in  my  heart  I sing  that  little  song : 

The  angels  hear  it  as,  a pitying  throng, 

They  touch  my  burning  lids  with  fingers  bright 
As  moonbeams,  pale,  impalpable,  and  light : 

And  when  my  daily  pious  tasks  are  done, 

And  all  my  patient  prayers  said  one  by  one, 

God  hears  it.  Seems  it  sinful  in  His  sight 
That  round  my  slow  burnt- offering  of  quench’d 
will 

One  quivering  human  sigh  creeps  wind-like  still  ? 
That  when  my  orisons  celestial  fail 
Rises  one  note  of  natural  human  wail  ? 

Dear  lord,  spouse,  hero,  martyr,  saint ! ere  long, 
I trust,  God  will  forgive  my  singing  that  poor 


164 


II. 

A year  ago  I bade  my  little  son 

Bear  upon  pilgrimage  a heavy  load 

Of  alms  ; he  cried,  half- fainting  on  the  road, 

“ Mother,  oh  mother,  would  the  day  were  done ! ” 
Him  I reproved  with  tears,  and  said,  “ Go  on  ! 
Nor  pause  nor  murmur  till  thy  task  be  o’er.55 — 
Would  not  God  say  to  me  the  same,  and  more  P 
I will  not  sing  that  song.  Thou,  dearest  one, 
Husband — no,  brother  ! —stretch  thy  firm  right 
hand 

And  let  mine  grasp  it.  Now,  I also  stand, 

My  woman  weakness  nerved  to  strength  like  thine, 
We  T1  quaff  life’s  aloe-cup  as  if ’t  were  wine 
Each  to  the  other ; journeying  on  apart 
Till  at  heaven’s  golden  doors  we  two  leap  heart 
to  heart. 


A MARRIAGE-TABLE. 


W.  H.  L.  and  F.  R. 

There  was  a marriage-table  where  One  sat, 
Haply,  unnoticed,  till  they  craved  His  aid : 
Thenceforward  does  it  seem  that  He  has  made 
All  virtuous  marriage-tables  consecrate  : 

And  so,  at  this,  where  without  pomp  or  state 
We  sit,  and  only  say,  or  mute  are  fain 
To  wish  the  simple  words  “ God  bless  these 
twain ! ” 

I think  that  He  who  “ in  the  midst  ” doth  wait 
Oft-times,  would  not  abjure  our  prayerful  cheer, 
But,  as  at  Cana,  list  with  gracious  ear 
To  us,  beseeching,  that  the  Love  divine 
May  ever  at  their  household  table  sit, 

Make  all  His  servants  who  encompass  it, 

And  change  life’s  bitterest  waters  into  wine ! 


MICHAEL  THE  ARCHANGEL. 


A STATUETTE. 

L 

My  white  archangel,  with  thy  stedfast  eyes 
Beholding  all  this  empty  ghost-filTd  room, 

Thy  clasp’d  hands  resting  on  the  sword  of  doom, 
Thy  firm,  close  lips,  not  made  for  human  sighs 
Or  smiles,  or  kisses  sweet,  or  hitter  cries, 

But  for  divine  exhorting,  holy  song, 

And  righteous  counsel,  bold  from  seraph  tongue. 
Beautiful  angel,  strong  as  thou  art  wise, 

Would  that  the  sight  of  thee  made  wise  and 
strong ! 

Would  that  this  sheathed  sword  of  thine,  which 
lies 

Stonily  idle,  could  gleam  out  among 
The  spiritual  hosts  of  enemies 
That  tempting  shriek — “Requite  thou  wrong 
with  wrong.” 

Lama  Sabachthani — How  long,  how  long  ? 


167 


II. 

Michael,  the  leader  of  the  hosts  of  God, 

Who  warr’d  with  Satan  for  the  body  of  him 
Whom,  living,  God  had  loved — If  cherubim 
With  cherubim  contended  for  one  clod 
Of  human  dust,  for  forty  years  that  trod 
The  gloomy  desert  of  Heaven's  chastisement, 
Are  there  not  ministering  angels  sent 
To  battle  with  the  devils  that  roam  abroad, 
Clutching  our  living  souls  ? “ The  living,  still 

The  living,  they  shall  praise  Thee  ! ” — Let  some 
great 

Invisible  spirit  enter  in  and  fill 

The  howling  chambers  of  hearts  desolate  ; 

With  looks  like  thine,  0 Michael,  strong  and 
wise, 

My  white  archangel  with  the  stedfast  eyes. 


I. 


BEATRICE  TO  DANTE. 

u Guardami  ben.  Ben  son,  ben  son.”  * 

Regard  me  well : I am  thy  love,  thy  love  ; 

Thy  blessing,  thy  delight,  thy  hope,  thy  peace : 
Thy  joy  above  all  joys  that  break  and  cease 
When  their  full  waves  in  widest  circles  move : 
Thy  bird  of  comfort,  thine  eternal  dove, 

Whom  thou  did  send  out  of  thy  mournful  breast 
To  flutter  back  and  point  thee  to  thy  rest : 
Thine  angel,  who  forgets  her  crown  star- wove 
To  come  to  thee  with  folded  woman-hands 
Pleading — “ Look  on  me,  Beatrice,  who  stands 
Before  thee ; by  the  Triune  Light  divine 
Undazzled,  still  beholds  thy  human  face, 

And  is  more  happy  in  this  happy  place 
That  thou  alone  art  hers  and  she  is  thine.” 

* Suggested  by  a statue  of  Beatrice,  bearing  this  motto. 


II. 


DANTE  TO  BEATRICE. 

I see  thee,  gliding  towards  me  with  slow  pace 
Across  the  azure  fields  of  paradise, 

Where  thine  each  footstep  makes  a star  arise. 

So  from  this  heart’s  once  void  but  infinite  space 
Each  strange  sweet  touch  of  thy  celestial  grace 
In  the  old  mortal  life,  struck  out  some  spark 
To  light  the  world,  though  all  my  heaven  lay 
dark. 

0 Beatrice,  cypresses  enlace 

My  laurels : none  have  grown  save  tear-be- 
dew’d — 

Salt  tears  that  sank  into  the  earth  unview’d, 
And  sprang  up  green  to  form  a crown  of  bays. 
Take  it ! At  thy  dear  feet  I lay  my  all, 

What  men  my  honours,  virtues,  glories,  call : 

1 lived,  loved,  suffer’d,  sung — for  thy  sole  praise. 


A QUESTION 


I. 

Soul,  spirit,  genius — which  thou  art, — that, 
whence 

I know  not,  rose  upon  this  mortal  frame 
Like  the  sun  o’er  the  mountains,  all  aflame, 

Seen  large  through  mists  of  childish  innocence, 
And  year  by  year  with  me  up  travelling  thence, 
As  hour  by  hour  the  day-star,  madest  aspire 
My  nature,  interpenetrate  with  fire 
It  felt  but  understood  not ; strong,  intense, 
Wisdom  with  folly  mix’d,  and  gold  with  clay  ; — 
Soul,  thou  hast  journey’d  with  me  all  this  way, 
Oft  hidden  and  o’erclouded,  oft  array’d 
In  scorching  splendours  that  my  earth -life 
burn’d ; 

Yet  ever  unto  thee  my  true  life  turn’d, 

For,  dim  or  clear,  ’t  was  thou  my  day  light  made. 


171 


II. 

Soul,  dwelling  oft  in  God’s  infinitude, 

And  sometimes  seeming  no  more  part  of  me — 
This  me,  worms’  heritage — than  that  sun  can  be 
Part  of  the  earth  he  has  with  warmth  imbued, — 
Whence  earnest  thou  ? whither  goest  thou  ? T, 
subdued 

With  awe  of  mine  own  being — thus  sit  still, 
Dumb  on  the  summit  of  this  lonely  hill, 

Whose  dry  November  grasses  dew-bestrew’d 
Mirror  a million  suns — That  sun,  so  bright, 
Passes,  as  thou  must  pass,  Soul,  into  night : 

Art  thou  afraid,  who  solitary  hast  trod 
A path  I know  not,  from  a source  to  a bourne, 
Both  which  I know  not  ? fear’st  thou  to  return 
Alone,  even  as  thou  earnest,  alone,  to  God  ? 


ANGEL  FACES. 


“ And  with  the  dawn  those  angel  faces  smile 
That  I have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile/’ 

I. 

I shall  not  paint  them.  God  them  sees,  and  I : 
No  other  can,  nor  need.  They  have  no  form, 

I may  not  close  with  human  kisses  warm 
Their  eyes  which  shine  afar  or  from  on  high, 
But  never  will  shine  nearer  till  I die. 

How  long,  how  long  ! See,  I am  growing  old ; 

I have  quite  ceased  to  note  in  my  hair’s  fold 
The  silver  threads  that  there  in  ambush  lie ; 
Some  angel  faces  bent  from  heaven  would  pine 
To  trace  the  sharp  lines  graven  upon  mine : 
What  matter  ? in  the  wrinkles  plough’d  by  care 
Let  age  tread  after,  sowing  immortal  seeds ; 

All  this  life’s  harvest  yielded,  wheat  or  weeds, 

Is  reap’d,  methinks : at  last  my  little  held  lies 
bare. 


173 


II. 

But  in  the  night  time,  ’twixt  me  and  the  stars, 
The  angel  faces  still  come  glimmering  by ; 

No  death-pale  shadow,  no  averted  eye 
Marking  the  inevitable  doom  that  bars 
Me  from  them.  Not  a cloud  their  aspect  mars ; 
And  my  sick  spirit  walks  with  them  hand  in 
hand 

By  the  cool  waters  of  a pleasant  land : 

Sings  with  them  o’er  again,  without  its  jars, 

The  psalm  of  life,  that  ceased  as  one  by  one 
Their  voices  dropping  off,  left  mine  alone 
With  dull  monotonous  wail  to  grieve  the  air. — 

0 solitary  love,  that  art  so  strong, 

1 think  Grod  will  have  pity  on  thee  ere  long, 
And  take  thee  where  thou  ’it  find  those  angel 

faces  fair. 


SUNDAY  MORNING  BELLS. 


From  the  near  city  comes  the  clang  of  bells  : 
Their  hundred  jarring  diverse  tones  combine 
In  one  faint  misty  harmony,  as  fine 
As  the  soft  note  yon  winter  robin  swells. — 
What  if  to  Thee  in  Thine  Infinity 
These  multiform  and  many- colour’d  creeds 
Seem  but  the  robe  man  wraps  as  masquers’  weeds 
Round  the  one  living  truth  Thou  givest  him — 
Thee? 

What  if  these  varied  forms  that  worship  prove. 
Being  heart- worship,  reach  Thy  perfect  ear 
But  as  a monotone,  complete  and  clear, 

Of  which  the  music  is,  through  Christ’s  name. 
Love  ? 

For  ever  rising  in  sublime  increase 

To  “ Glory  in  the  Highest— on  earth  peace  ? ” 


CCEUR  DE  LION : 


Marochetti’s  Statue  in  tlie  Great  Exhibition  of  1851. 

I. 

Richard  the  Lioxhearted,  crown’d  serene 
With  the  true  royalty  of  perfect  man  ; 

Seated  in  stone  above  the  praise  or  ban 
Of  these  mix’d  crowds  who  come  and  gaping 
lean 

As  if  to  see  what  the  word  “ king  ” might  mean 
In  those  old  times.  Behold ! what  need  that 
rim 

Of  crown  ’gainst  this  blue  sky,  to  signal  him 
A monarch,  of  the  monarchs  that  have  been 
And,  perhaps,  are  not  ? — Read  his  destinies 
In  the  full  brow  o’er- arching  kingly  eyes, 

In  the  strong  hands,  grasping  both  rein  and 
sword, 

In  the  close  mouth,  so  sternly  beautiful : — 
Surely,  a man  who  his  own  spirit  can  rule ; 

Lord  of  himself,  therefore  his  brethren’s  lord. 


176 


II. 

“ 0 Richard , 0 mon  roi”  So  minstrels  sigh’d. 
The  many-centuried  voice  dies  fast  away 
Amidst  the  turmoil  of  our  modern  day. 

How  know  we  but  these  green -wreath’d  legends 
hide 

An  ugly  truth  that  never  could  abide 
In  this  our  living  world’s  far  purer  air  ? — 
What  matter  ! — Noble  statue,  rest  thou  there, 
King  Kichard,  of  all  chivalry  the  pride ; 

Or  if  not  the  true  Kichard,  still  a type 
Of  the  old  regal  glory,  fallen,  o’er-ripe, 

And  giving  place  to  better  blossoming : 

Stand — imaging  the  grand  heroic  days  ; 

And  let  our  little  children  come  and  gaze, 
Whispering  with  innocent  awe — “ This  was  a 
King  ” 


GUNS  OF  PEACE. 


Sunday  Night,  March  30th,  1S56. 

Ghosts  of  dead  soldiers  in  the  battle  slain, 
Ghosts  of  dead  heroes  dying  nobler  far 
In  the  long  patience  of  inglorious  war, 

Of  famine,  cold,  heat,  pestilence,  and  pain, — 
All  ye  whose  loss  makes  our  victorious  gain — 
This  quiet  night,  as  sounds  the  cannon’s  tongue, 
Do  ye  look  down  the  trembling  stars  among, 
Viewing  our  peace  and  war  with  like  disdain  P 
Or,  wiser  grown  since  reaching  those  new  spheres, 
Smile  ye  on  those  poor  bones  ye  sow’d  as  seed 
For  this  our  harvest,  nor  regret  the  deed  ? — 
Yet  lift  one  cry  with  us  to  Heavenly  ears — 

“ Strike  with  Thy  bolt  the  next  red  flag  unfurl’d, 
And  make  all  wars  to  cease  throughout  the 
world.” 


12 


DAVID’S  CHILD. 


— “Is  the  child  dead ? ” — And  they  said,  “ He  is  dead.” 

In  face  of  a great  sorrow  like  to  death 
How  do  we  wrestle  night  and  day  with  tears ; 
How  do  we  fast  and  pray ; how  small  appears 
The  outside  world,  while,  hanging  on  some 
breath 

Of  fragile  hope,  the  chamber  where  we  lie 
Includes  all  space. — But  if,  sudden  at  last 
The  blow  falls  ; or  by  incredulity 
Fond  led,  we — never  having  one  thought  cast 
Towards  years  where  “ the  child  ” was  not — see 
it  die, 

And  with  it  all  our  future,  all  our  past, — 

We  just  look  round  us  with  a dull  surprise : 

For  lesser  pangs  we  had  fill’d  earth  with  cries 
Of  wild  and  angry  grief  that  would  be  heard  : — 
But  when  the  heart  is  broken — not  a word. 


A WORD  IN  SEASON. 


“This  is  a day  the  Lord  hath  made.” — Thus  spake 
The  good  religious  heart,  unstain’d,  unworn, 
Watching  the  golden  glory  of  the  morn. — 
Since,  on  each  happy  day  that  came  to  break 
Like  sunlight  o’er  this  silent  life  of  mine, 

Yea,  on  each  beauteous  morning  I saw  shine, 

I have  remember’d  these  your  words,  rejoiced 
And  been  glad  in  it.  So,  o’er  many- voiced 
Tumultuous  harmonies  of  tropic  seas, 

Which  chant  an  everlasting  farewell  grand 
Between  ourselves  and  you  and  the  old  land, 
Receive  this  token  : many  words  chance- sown 
May  oftentimes  have  taken  root  and  grown, 

To  bear  good  fruit  perennially,  lika  these. 

12  * 


THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  SNOW. 


Bare  and  sunshiny,  bright  and  bleak, 
Rounded  cold  as  a dead  maid’s  cheek, 
Folded  white  as  a sinner’s  shroud, 

Or  wandering  angel’s  robes  of  cloud, — 
Well  I know,  well  I know 
Over  the  fields  the  path  through  the  snow. 

Narrow  and  rough  it  lies  between 
Wastes  where  the  wind  sweeps,  biting  keen 
Every  step  of  the  slippery  road 
Marks  where  some  weary  foot  has  trod ; 

Who  ’ll  go,  who  ’ll  go 
Alter  the  rest  on  the  path  through  the  snow 


THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  SNOW.  181 


They  who  would  tread  it  must  walk  alone, 
Silent  and  solemn — one  by  one  : 

Dearest  to  dearest  can  only  say, 

“ My  heart ! I T1  follow  thee  all  the  way, 

As  we  go,  as  we  go, 

Each  after  each  on  this  path  through  the  snow/’ 

It  may  be  under  that  western  haze 
Lurks  the  omen  of  brighter  days  ; 

That  each  sentinel  tree  is  quivering 
Deep  at  its  core  with  the  sap  of  spring, 

And  while  we  go,  while  we  go, 

Green  grass-blades  pierce  through  the  glittering 
snow. 

It  may  be  the  unknown  path  will  tend 
Never  to  any  earthly  end, 

Die  with  the  dying  day  obscure, 

And  never  lead  to  a human  door : 

That  none  know  who  did  go 
Patiently  once  on  this  path  through  the  snow. 


182  THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  SNOW. 

No  matter,  no  matter  ! the  path  shines  plain  ; 
These  pure  snow- crystals  will  deaden  pain  ; 
Above,  like  stars  in  the  deep  blue  dark, 

Eyes  that  love  us  look  down  and  mark. 

Let  us  go,  let  us  go, 

Whither  heaven  leads  in  the  path  through  the 


snow. 


THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  CORN. 


Wavy  and  bright  in  the  summer  air, 

Like  a pleasant  sea  when  the  wind  blows  fair, 
And  its  roughest  breath  has  scarcely  curl’d 
The  green  highway  to  a distant  world, — 

Soft  whispers  passing  from  shore  to  shore, 

As  from  hearts  content,  yet  desiring  more — 
Who  feels  forlorn, 

Wandering  thus  down  the  path  through  the 
corn  ? 

A short  space  since,  and  the  dead  leaves  lay 
Mouldering  under  the  hedgerow  gray, 


184  THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  CORN. 

Nor  hum  of  insect,  nor  voice  of  bird, 

O’er  the  desolate  field  was  ever  heard ; 

Only  at  eve  the  pallid  snow 
Blush’d  rose- red  in  the  red  sun- glow  ; 

Till,  one  blest  morn, 

Shot  up  into  life  the  young  green  corn. 

Small  and  feeble,  slender  and  pale, 

It  bent  its  head  to  the  winter  gale, 
Hearken’d  the  wren’s  soft  note  of  cheer, 
Hardly  believing  spring  was  near : 

Saw  chesnuts  bud  out  and  campions  blow, 
And  daisies  mimic  the  vanish’d  snow 
Where  it  was  born. 

On  either  side  of  the  path  through  the  corn. 

The  corn,  the  corn,  the  beautiful  corn, 
Rising  wonderful,  morn  by  morn  : 

First,  scarce  as  high  as  a fairy’s  wand, 
Then,  just  in  reach  of  a child’s  wee  hand  ; 


THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  CORN. 


185 


Then  growing,  growing,  tall,  brave,  and  strong, 
With  the  voice  of  new  harvests  in  its  song ; 

While  in  fond  scorn 
The  lark  out-carols  the  whispering  corn. 

A strange,  sweet  path,  form’d  day  by  day, 

IIow,  when,  and  wherefore,  we  cannot  say ; 

Yo  more  than  of  our  life-paths  we  know. 
Whither  they  lead  us,  wdiy  w^e  go  ; 

Or  whether  our  eyes  shall  ever  see 
The  wheat  in  the  ear  or  the  fruit  on  the  tree ; 
Yet,  who ’s  forlorn  ? — 

He  who  water’d  the  furrows  can  ripen  the  corn. 


THE  GOOD  OF  IT. 


A Cynic’s  Song. 


Some  men  strut  proudly,  all  purple  and  gold, 
Hiding  queer  deeds  *neath  a cloak  of  good 
fame ; 

I creep  along,  braving  hunger  and  cold, 

To  keep  my  heart  stainless  as  well  as  my  name ; 
So,  so,  where  is  the  good  of  it  ? 

Some  clothe  bare  Truth  in  fine  garments  of  words, 
Fetter  her  free  limbs  with  cumbersome  state  : 


THE  GOOD  OF  IT. 


187 


'With,  me,  let  me  sit  at  the  lordliest  boards, 

“ I love  ” means  I love , and  “ I hate  ” means 
I hate , 

But,  but,  where  is  the  good  of  it  ? 


Some  have  rich  dainties  and  costly  attire, 

Guests  fluttering  round  them  and  duns  at  the 
door : 

I crouch  alone  at  my  plain  board  and  fire, 

Enjoy  what  I pay  for  and  scorn  to  have  more. 
Yet,  yet,  where  is  the  good  of  it  ? 


Some  gather  round  them  a phalanx  of  friends, 
Scattering  affection  like  coin  in  a crowd ; 

I keep  my  heart  for  the  few  that  Heaven  sends, 
Where  they  ’ll  find  their  names  writ  when  I 
lie  in  my  shroud. 

Still,  still,  where  is  the  good  of  it  ? 


188 


THE  GOOD  OF  IT. 


Some  toy  with  love,  lightly  come,  lightly  go, 

A blithe  game  at  hearts,  little  worth,  little 
cost : — 

I staked  my  whole  soul  on  one  desperate  throw, 
A life  ’gainst  an  hour’s  sport.  We  play’d; 
and  I — lost. 

Ha,  ha,  such  was  the  good  of  it ! 


MORAL:  ADDED  ON  HIS  DEATH-BED. 

Turn  the  Past’s  mirror  backward.  Its  shadows 
removed, 

The  dim  confused  mass  becomes  soften’d, 
sublime : 

I have  work’d — I have  felt — I have  lived — I 
have  loved, 

And  each  was  a step  towards  the  goal  I now 
climb : 

Thou,  God,  Thou  sawest  the  good  of  it. 


MINE. 


For  a German  Air. 


0 how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I keep 
repeating, 

And  I drink  up  joy  like  wine  : 

0 how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I keep 
repeating, 

For  the  lovely  girl  is  mine ! 

She ’s  rich,  she ’s  fair,  beyond  compare, 

Of  noble  mind,  serene  and  kind — 

And  how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I 
keep  repeating, 

For  the  lovely  girl  is  mine ! 


190 


MINE. 


0 how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I keep 
repeating, 

In  a music  soft  and  fine  ; 

O how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I keep 
repeating. 

For  the  girl  I love  is  mine. 

She  owns  no  lands,  has  no  white  hands, 

Her  lot  is  poor,  her  life  obscure  ; — 

Yet  how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I keep 
repeating, 

For  the  girl  I love  is  mine ! 


A GHOST  AT  THE  DANCING. 


A wind-swept  tulip-bed — a colour’d  cloud 
Of  butterflies  careering  in  tbe  air — 

A many- figured  arras  stirr’d  to  life, 

And  merry  unto  midnight  music  dumb — 

So  the  dance  whirls.  Do  any  think  of  thee, 
Amiel,  Amiel? 

Friends  greet  each  other — countless  rills  of  talk 
Meander  round,  scattering  a spray  of  smiles. 
Surely — the  news  was  false.  One  minute  more, 
And  thou  wilt  stand  here,  tall  and  quiet- eyed, 
Shaksperian  beauty  in  thy  pensive  face, 

Amiel,  Amiel. 


192 


A ghost  at  the  dancing. 


Many  here  knew  and  loved  thee — I nor  loved, 
Scarce  knew — yet  in  thy  place  a shadow  glides, 
And  a face  shapes  itself  from  empty  air, 
Watching  the  dancers,  grave  and  quiet- eyed — 
Eyes  that  now  see  the  angels  evermore, 

Amiel,  Amiel. 

On  just  such  night  as  this,  ’midst  dance  and  song, 
I bade  thee  carelessly  a light  good-bye — 

“ Good-bye  ” — saidst  thou  ; “ A happy  journey 
home ! ” 

Was  the  unseen  death-angel  at  thy  side, 
Mocking  those  words — “ A happy  journey  home” 
Amiel,  Amiel? 

Ay,  we  play  fool’s  play  still;  thou  hast  gone 
home. 

While  we  dance  here,  a mile  hence  o’er  thy  grave 
Drifts  the  deep  New  Year  snow.  The  wondrous 
gate 


A GHOST  AT  THE  DANCING. 


193 


We  spoke  of,  tliou  hast  enter’d ; I without 
Grope  ignorant  still — thou  dost  its  secrets  know, 
Amiel,  Amiel. 

What  if,  thus  sitting  where  we  sat  last  year, 
Thou  earnest,  took’st  up  our  broken  thread  of 
talk, 

And  told’st  of  that  new  Home,  which  far  I view, 
As  children,  wandering  on  through  wintry  fields, 
Mark  on  the  hill  the  father’s  window  shine, 
Amiel,  Amiel? 

No.  We  shall  see  thy  pleasant  face  no  more. 
Thy  words  on  earth  are  ended.  Yet  thou  livest ; 
’T  is  we  who  die. — I too,  one  day,  shall  come, 
And,  unseen,  watch  these  .shadows,  quiet-eyed — 
Then  flit  back  to  thy  land,  the  living  land, 
Amiel,  Amiel. 


13 


MY  CHRISTIAN  NAME. 


My  Christian  name,  my  Christian  name, 
I never  hear  it  now : 

None  have  the  right  to  utter  it, 

;T  is  lost,  I know  not  how. 

My  worldly  name  the  world  speaks  loud 
Thank  God  for  well-earned  fame  ! 

But  silence  sits  at  my  cold  hearth, — 

I have  no  household  name. 

My  Christian  name,  my  Christian  name. 

It  has  an  uncouth  sound ; 

My  mother  chose  it  out  of  those 
In  Bible  pages  found : 


MY  CHRISTIAN  NAME. 


195 


Mother,  whose  accents  made  half  sweet 
'What  else  I held  in  shame, 

Dost  thou  remember  up  in  heaven 
My  poor  lost  Christian  name  ? 


Brothers  and  sisters,  mockers  oft 
Of  the  quaint  name  I bore, 

Would  I could  leap  back  years,  to  hear 
Ye  shout  it  out  once  more  ! 

One  speaks  it  still,  in  written  lines, 

The  last  fraternal  claim  : 

But  the  wide  seas  between  us  drown 
Its  sound — my  Christian  name. 


I had  a long  dream  once.  Her  voice 

Might  breathe  the  homely  word, 

And  make  it  music — as  love  makes 

Any  name,  said  or  heard. 

13  * 


196 


MY  CHRISTIAN  NAME. 


0,  dumb,  dumb  lips  ! — 0,  silent  heart ! 

Though  it  is  no  one’s  blame : 

Now  while  I live  I ’ll  never  hear 
Her  speak  my  Christian  name. 

God  send  her  bliss,  and  send  me  rest ! 

If  her  white  footsteps  calm 
Should  track  my  bleeding  feet,  God  make 
To  them  each  blood- drop  balm  ! 

Peace — peace.  0 mother,  put  thou  forth 
Thine  elder,  holier  claim, 

And  the  first  word  I hear  in  heaven 
May  be  my  Christian  name. 


A DEAD  BABY. 


Little  soul,  for  such  brief  space  that  enter’d 
In  this  little  body  straight  and  chilly, 

Little  life  that  flutter’d  and  departed, 

Like  a 'moth  from  an  imopen’d  lily, 

Little  being,  without  name  or  nation, 

Where  is  now  thy  place  among  creation  P 

Little  dark-lash’ d eyes,  unclosed  never, 

Little  mouth,  by  earthly  food  ne’er  tainted, 
Little  breast,  that  just  once  heaved,  and  settled 
In  eternal  slumber,  white  and  sainted, — 
Child,  shall  I in  future  children’s  faces 
See  some  pretty  look  that  thine  re-traces  ? 


198 


A DEAD  BABY. 


Is  this  thrill  that  strikes  across  my  heart-strings, 
And  in  dew  beneath  my  eyelid  gathers, 

Token  of  the  bliss  thou  might’st  have  brought  me, 
Dawning  of  the  love  they  call  a father’s  ? 

Do  I hear  through  this  still  room  a sighing 
Like  thy  spirit  to  me  its  author  crying  ? 

Whence  didst  come  and  whither  take  thy  journey, 
Little  soul,  of  me  and  mine  created  ? 

Must  thou  lose  us,  and  we  thee,  for  ever, 

0 strange  life,  by  minutes  only  dated  ? 

Or  new  flesh  assuming,  just  to  prove  us, 

In  some  other  babe  return  and  ]ove  us  ? 

Idle  questions  all : yet  our  beginning, 

Like  our  ending,  rests  with  the  Life-sender, 
With  whom  nought  is  lost,  and  nought  spent 
vainly : 

Unto  Him  this  little  one  I render. 

Hide  the  face — the  tiny  coffin  cover : 

So,  our  first  dream,  our  first  hope — is  over. 


FOR  MUSIC. 


Along  the  shore,  along  the  shore 
I see  the  wavelets  meeting : 

But  thee  I see — ah,  never  more, 

For  all  my  wild  heart’s  beating. 

The  little  wavelets  come  and  go, 

The  tide  of  life  ebbs  to  and  fro, 
Advancing  and  retreating : 

But  from  the  shore,  the  changeless  shore, 
The  sea  is  parted  never  : 

And  mine  I hold  thee  evermore, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 


200 


FOR  MUSIC. 


Along  the  shore,  along  the  shore, 

I hear  the  waves  resounding, 

But  thou  wilt  cross  them  never  more, 
For  all  my  wild  heart’s  bounding : 
The  moon  comes  out  above  the  tide, 
And  quiets  all  the  billows  wide 
Her  pathway  bright  surrounding : 
Thus  on  the  shore,  the  dreary  shore, 

I walk  with  weak  endeavour ; 

I have  thy  love’s  light  evermore. 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 


THE  CANARY  IN  HIS  CAGE. 


Sing  away,  ay,  sing  away, 

Merry  little  bird, 

Always  gayest  of  the  gay, 

Though  a woodland  roundelay 
You  ne’er  sung  nor  heard ; 
Though  your  life  from  youth  to  age 
Passes  in  a narrow  cage. 


Near  the  window  wild  birds  fly, 
Trees  are  waving  round : 

Fair  things  everywhere  you  spy 
Through  the  glass  pane’s  mystery, 
Your  small  life’s  small  bound : 


202  THE  CANARY  IN  HIS  CAGE. 

Nothing  hinders  your  desire 
But  a little  gilded  wire. 


Like  a human  soul  you  seem 
Shut  in  golden  bars  : 

Placed  amidst  earth’s  sunshine-stream, 
Singing  to  the  morning-beam, 
Dreaming  ’neath  the  stars ; 

Seeing  all  life’s  pleasures  clear, — 

But  they  never  can  come  near. 


Never  ! Sing,  bird-poet  mine, 

As  most  poets  do  ; — 

Guessing  by  an  instinct  fine 
At  some  happiness  divine 
Which  they  never  knew. 
Lonely  in  a prison  bright 
Hymning  for  the  world’s  delight. 


THE  CANARY  IN  HIS  CAGE. 


203 


Yet,  my  birdie,  you  ’re  content 
In  your  tiny  cage  : 

Not  a carol  thence  is  sent 
But  for  happiness  is  meant — 
Wisdom  pure  as  sage  : 
Teaching,  the  true  poet’s  part 
Is  to  sing  with  merry  heart. 

So,  lie  down,  thou  peevish  pen, 
Eyes,  shake  off  all  tears ; 

And,  my  wee  bird,  sing  again : 

I ’ll  translate  your  song  to  men 
In  these  future  years  : — 

“ Howsoe’er  thy  lot ’s  assign’d, 
Bear  it  with  a cheerful  mind.” 


CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY. 


AN  OLD  MAN’S  CONFESSION. 

She  has  a large  still  heart — this  lady  of  mine 
(Not  mine,  i’  faith  ! nor  would  I that  she  were)  ; 
She  walks  this  world  of  ours  like  Grecian 
nymph, 

Pure  with  a marble  pureness,  moving  on 
Among  the  herd  of  men,  environ’d  round 
With  native  airs  of  deep  Olympian  calm. 

I have  a great  love  for  this  lady  of  mine : 

I like  to  watch  her  motions,  trick  of  face, 


CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY. 


205 


And  turn  of  thought,  when  speaking  high  and 
wise 

The  tongue  of  gods,  not  men.  Ay,  every  day, 
And  twenty  times  a day,  I start  to  catch 
Some  look  or  gesture  of  familiar  mould, 

And  then  my  panting  soul  leans  forth  to  her 
Like  some  sick  traveller  who  astonied  sees, 
Gliding  across  the  distant  twilight  fields — 

His  lovely,  lost,  beloved  memory-fields, — 

The  shadowy  people  of  an  earlier  world. 

I have  a friend,  how  dearly  liked,  heart- warm, 
Did  I confess,  sure  she  and  all  would  smile : 

I watch  her  as  she  steals  in  some  dull  room 
That  brightens  at  her  entrance — slow  lets  fall 
A word  or  two  of  wise  simplicity, 

Then  goes,  and  at  her  going  all  seems  dark. 
Little  she  knows  this  ; little  thinks  each  brow 
Lightens,  each  heart  grows  purer  ’neath  her 
eyes, 


206 


CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY. 


Good,  honest  eyes — clear,  upward,  righteous 
eyes, 

That  look  as  if  they  saw  the  dim  unseen, 

And  learnt  from  thence  their  deep  compassionate 
calm. 

Why  do  I precious  hold  this  friend  of  mine  ? 
Why  in  our  talks,  our  quiet  fireside  talks, 

When  we,  two  earnest  travellers  through  the 
dark, 

Grasp  at  the  guiding  threads  that  homeward 
lead, 

Seems  it  ’s  another  soul  than  hers  looks  out 
From  these  her  eyes  ? — until  I oft-times  start 
And  quiver,  as  when  some  soft  ignorant  hand 
Touches  the  barb  hid  in  a long-heard  wound. 
Yet  still  no  blame,  but  thanks  to  thee,  dear 
friend, 

Ay,  even  when  we  wander  back  at  eve, 

Thy  careless  arm  loose  link’d  within  my  own — 
The  same  height  as  I gaze  down — nay,  the  hair 


CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY. 


207 


Her  very  colour — fluttering  ’neath  tlie  stars — 
The  same  large  stars  which  lit  that  earlier 
world. 

I have  another  love — whose  dewy  looks 
Are  fresh  with  life’s  young  dawn.  I prophesy 
The  streak  of  light  now  quivering  on  the  hills 
Will  broaden  out  into  a glorious  day. 

Thou  sweet  one,  meek  as  good,  and  good  as  fair, 
Wise  as  a woman,  harmless  as  a child, 

I love  thee  well ! And  yet  not  thee,  not  thee, 
God  knows — they  know  who  sit  among  the 
stars. 

As  one  whose  sun  was  darken’d  before  noon, 
Creeps  patiently  along  the  twilight  lands, 

Sees  glow-worms,  meteors,  or  tapers  kind 
Of  an  hour’s  burning,  stops  awhile  to  mark, 
Thanks  Heaven  for  them,  but  never  calls  them 
day— 

So  love  I these,  and  more.  Yet  thou,  my  sun, 


208 


CONSTANCY  IN  INCONSTANCY. 


That  rose,  leap’d  to  thy  zenith,  sat  there 
throned, 

And  made  the  whole  earth  day — look,  if  thou 
canst, 

Out  of  thy  veiled  glory,  and  behold 
How  all  these  lesser  lights  but  come  and  go 
Mere  reflexes  of  thee.  Be  it  so  ! I keep 
My  face  unto  the  eastward,  where  thou  stand?st, 
I know  thou  stand’st — behind  the  purpling  hills  ; 
And  I shall  wake  and  find  morn  in  the  world. 


-j-  (bf  ,rll) 

BURIED  TO-DAY. 


February  23,  1858. 


Buried  to-day ; 

When  the  soft  green  buds  are  bursting  out, 
And  up  on  the  south  wind  comes  a shout 
Of  village  boys  and  girls  at  play 
In  the  mild  spring  evening  gray. 

Taken  away  ; 

Sturdy  of  heart  and  stout  of  limb, 

From  eyes  that  drew  half  their  light  from 
him, 


14 


210 


BURIED  TO-DAY. 


And  put  low,  low,  underneath  the  clay, 

In  his  spring — on  this  spring  day. 

Passes  away 

All  the  pride  of  boy-life  begun, 

All  the  hope  of  life  yet  to  run ; 

Who  dares  to  question  when  One  saith  “Nay 
Murmur  not — only  pray. 

Enters  to-day 

Another  body  in  church-yard  sod, 
Another  soul  on  the  life  in  God. 

His  Christ  was  buried — and  lives  alway : 
Trust  Him,  and  go  your  way. 


THE  MILL, 


Lor  an  Irish  Tune. 

Winding  and  grinding, 

Round  goes  the  mill : 

Winding  and  grinding, 

Should  never  stand  still. 

Ask  not  if  neighbour 

Grind  great  or  small : 

Spare  not  your  labour, 

Grind  your  wheat  all. 

Winding  and  grinding  round  goes  the  mill : 

Winding  and  grinding  should  never  stand  still. 
14  * 


212 


THE  MILL. 


Winding  and  grinding 

W ork  through  the  day, 

Grief  never  minding — 

Grind  it  away ! 

What  though  tears  dropping 
Rust  as  they  fall  ? 

Have  no  wheel  stopping — 

Work  comforts  all. 

Winding  and  grinding  round  goes  the  mill : 
Winding  and  grinding  should  never  stand  still. 


NORTH  WIND. 

Loud  wind,  strong  wind,  sweeping  o’er  the 
mountains, 

Fresh  wind,  free  wind,  blowing  from  the  sea, 

Pour  forth  thy  vials  like  streams  from  airy 
fountains, 

Draughts  of  life  to  me. 

Clear  wind,  cold  wind,  like  a Northern  giant, 

Stars  brightly  threading  thy  cloud-driven 
hair, 

Thrilling  the  blank  night  with  a voice  defiant, 

Lo  ! I meet  thee  there. 

Wild  wind,  bold  wind,  like  a strong-arm’d 
angel, 

Clasp  me  and  kiss  me  with  thy  kisses  divine; 


214 


NORTH  WIND. 


Breathe  in  this  dull’d  ear  thy  secret  sweet 
evangel — 

Mine — and  only  mine. 

Fierce  wind,  mad  wind,  howling  o’er  the  nations, 

Knew’st  thou  how  leapeth  my  heart  as  thou 
goest  by, 

Ah,  thou  wouldst  pause  awhile  in  a sudden 
patience. 

Like  a human  sigh. 

Sharp  wind,  keen  wind,  cutting  as  word-arrows, 

Empty  thy  quiverful ! pass  by  ! What  is’t  to 
thee, 

That  in  some  mortal  eyes  life’s  whole  bright 
circle  narrows 

To  one  misery  ? 

Loud  wind,  strong  wind,  stay  thou  in  the  moun- 
tains, 

Fresh  wind,  free  wind,  trouble  not  the  sea ; 

Or  lay  thy  deathly  hand  upon  my  heart’s  warm 
fountains, 

That  I hear  not  thee. 


NOW  AND  AFTERWARDS. 


“ Two  hands  upon  the  breast  and  labour  is  past.” 

Russian  Proverb. 


“ Two  hands  upon  the  breast, 

And  labour  ’s  done  ; 

Two  pale  feet  cross’d  in  rest — 
The  race  is  won  ; 

Two  eyes  with  coin-weights  shut, 
And  all  tears  cease ; 

Two  lips  where  grief  is  mute, 
Anger  at  peace  — 


216 


NOW  AND  AFTERWARDS. 


So  pray  we  oftentimes,  mourning  our  lot : * 

God  in  his  kindness  answereth  not. 

“ Two  hands  to  work  addrest 
Aye  for  His  praise ; 

Two  feet  that  never  rest 
Walking  His  ways  ; 

Two  eyes  that  look  above 
Through  all  their  tears  ; 

Two  lips  still  breathing  love, 

Hot  wrath,  nor  fears  ; ” 

So  pray  we  afterwards,  low  on  our  knees  ; 
Pardon  those  erring  prayers  ! Father,  hear 
these ! 


A SKETCH. 


“ Emelie,  that  fayrer  was  to  scene 
Than  is  the  lilye  on  hys  stalke  grene.” — 

“ Uprose  the  sun  and  uprose  Emelie.’, 

Dost  thou  thus  love  me,  0 thou  beautiful  ? 

So  beautiful,  that  by  thy  side  I seem 
Like  a great  dusky  cloud  beside  a star  : 

Yet  thou  creep’ st  near  its  edges,  and  it  rests 
On  its  lone  path,  the  slow  deep-hearted  cloud — 
Then  opes  a rift  and  lets  thee  enter  in ; 

And  with  thy  beauty  shining  on  its  breast, 
Feels  no  more  its  own  blackness — thou  art  fair. 


218 


A SKETCH. 


Dost  thou  thus  love  me,  0 thou  all-beloved, 

In  whose  large  store  the  very  meanest  coin 
Would  out-buy  my  whole  wealth?  Yet  here 
thou  comest 

Like  a kind  heiress  from  her  purple  and  down 
Uprising,  who  for  pity  cannot  sleep, 

But  goes  forth  to  the  stranger  at  her  gate — 
The  beggar’d  stranger  at  her  beauteous  gate — 
And  clothes  and  feeds  ; scarce  blest  till  she  has 
blest. 

Dost  thou  thus  love  me,  0 thou  pure  of  heart, 
Whose  very  looks  are  prayers  ? What  couldst 
thou  see 

In  this  forsaken  pool  by  the  yew- wood’s  side, 

To  sit  down  at  its  bank,  and  dip  thy  hand, 
Saying,  “ It  is  so  clear  ! ” — And  lo,  ere  long 
Its  blackness  caught  the  shimmer  of  thy  wings, 
Its  slimes  slid  downward  from  thy  stainless 
palm, 


A SKETCH. 


219 


Its  depths  grew  still  that  there  thy  form  might 
rise. 

0 beautiful ! 0 well-beloved  ! 0 rich 
In  all  that  makes  my  need  ! I lay  me  down 
T the  shadow  of  thy  love,  and  feel  no  pain. 

The  cloud  floats  on,  thee  glittering  on  its  breast ; 
The  beggar  wears  thy  purple  as  his  own  ; 

The  noisome  waves,  made  calm,  creep  to  thy 
feet, 

Rejoicing  that  they  yet  can  image  thee, 

And  beyond  thee,  God's  heaven,  thick-sown 
with  stars. 


THE  UNKNOWN  COUNTRY. 


To  a German  Air. 

“ Where  is  the  unknown  country  ? ” 

I whisper’d  sad  and  slow — 

“ The  strange  and  awful  country 

To  which  I soon  must  go,  must  go, 
To  which  I soon  must  go  ? ” 

Out  of  the  unknown  country 
A voice  sang  soft  and  low. 

“ 0 pleasant  is  that  country 

And  sweet  it  is  to  go,  to  go, 

And  sweet  it  is  to  go. 


TI1E  UNKNOWN  COUNTRY. 


221 


“ Along  the  shining  country 
The  peaceful  rivers  flow : 

And  in  that  wondrous  country 

The  tree  of  life  does  grow,  does  grow, 
The  tree  of  life  does  grow.” 

Ah,  then,  into  that  country 
Of  which  I nothing  know, 

The  everlasting  country, 

With  willing  heart  I go,  I go, 

With  willing  heart  I go. 


A CHILD’S  SMILE. 


“ For  I say  unto  you,  that  in  heaven  their  angels  do  always 
behold  the  face  of  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven.,; 

A child’s  smile — nothing  more  ; 

Quiet,  and  soft,  and  grave,  and  seldom  seen  • 
Like  summer  lightning  o’er, 

Leaving  the  little  face  again  serene. 

I think,  boy  well-beloved, 

Thine  angel,  who  did  grieve  to  see  how  far 

Thy  childhood  is  removed 

From  sports  that  dear  to  other  children  are, — 


a child’s  smile. 


223 


On  this  pale  cheek  has  thrown 

The  brightness  of  his  countenance,  and  made 

A beauty  like  his  own — 

That  while  wre  see  it,  we  are  half  afraid, 

And  marvel,  will  it  stay  ? 

Or,  long  ere  manhood,  will  that  angel  fair 
Departing,  some  sad  day 

Steal  the  child- smile  and  leave  the  shadow  care  ? 

Nay,  fear  not.  As  is  given 

Unto  this  child  the  father  watching  o’er, 

His  angel  up  in  heaven 

Beholds  Our  Father’s  face  for  evermore. 

And  he  will  help  him  bear 

His  burthen,  as  his  father  helps  him  now ; 

So  may  he  come  to  wear 

That  happy  child -smile  on  an  old  man’s  brow. 


VIOLETS. 


SENT  IN  A LITTLE  BOX. 

Let  them  lie,  yes,  let  them  lie, 
They  T1  be  dead  to-morrow  : 
Lift  the  lid  up  quietly 
As  you ’d  lift  the  mystery 
Of  a shrouded  sorrow. 

Let  them  lie,  the  fragrant  thing 
Their  sweet  souls  thus  giving 
Let  no  breezes’  ambient  wings, 
And  no  useless  water- springs, 
Lure  them  into  living. 


VIOLETS. 


22 


They  have  lived — they  live  no  more  : 
Nothing  can  requite  them 
For  the  gentle  life  they  bore, 

And  up-yielded  in  full  store 
While  it  did  delight  them. 

Yet,  poor  flowers,  not  sad  to  die 
In  the  hand  that  slew  ye, 

Did  ye  leave  the  open  sky, 

And  the  winds  that  wander’d  by, 
And  the  bees  that  knew  ye. 

Giving  up  a small  earth  place, 

And  a day  of  blooming, 

Here  to  lie  in  narrow  space, 

Smiling  in  this  sickly  face, 

This  dull  air  perfuming  ? 

0 my  pretty  violets  dead, 

Coffin’d  from  all  gazes, 

15 


226 


VIOLETS. 


We  will  also  smiling  shed 
Out  of  our  flowers  withered, 
Perfume  of  sweet  praises. 

And  as  ye,  for  this  poor  sake, 
Love  with  life  are  buying, 

So,  I doubt  not,  One  will  make 
All  our  gather’d  flowers  to  take 
Richer  scent  through  dying. 


EDENLAND. 


For  Music. 

You  remember  where  in  starlight 
We  two  wander’d  hand  in  hand, 

While  the  night-flowers  pour’d  their  perfume, 
And  night  airs  the  still  earth  fann’d  ? — 
There  I,  walking  yester  even, 

Felt  like  a ghost  in  Edenland. 

I remember  all  you  told  me, 

Looking  up  as  we  did  stand, 

While  my  heart  pour’d  out  its  perfume, 

Like  the  night-flowers,  in  your  hand  ; 


228 


EDENLANP. 


And  the  path  where  we  two  wander’d 
Seem’d  not  like  earth  but  Edenland. 

Now  the  stars  shine  paler,  colder 

Night-flowers  die  without  your  hand  ; 
Yet  my  spirit  walks  beside  you 
Everywhere,  unsought,  unbann’d. 

And  I wait  till  we  shall  wander 
Under  the  stars  of  Edenland. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CLAY. 


There  was  a house,  a house  of  clay, 

Wherein  the  inmate  sat  all  clay, 

Merry  and  poor ; 

For  Hope  sat  with  her,  heart  to  heart, 

Fond  and  kind,  fond  and  kind, 

Vowing  he  never  would  depart, — 

Till  all  at  once  he  changed  his  mind  : 

“ Sweetheart,  good-bye  ! ” He  slipp’d  away 
And  shut  the  door. 

But  Love  came  past,  and  looking  in 
With  smile  that  pierced  like  sunbeam  thin 
Through  wall,  roof,  floor, 

Stood  in  the  midst  of  that  poor  room, 

Grand  and  fair,  grand  and  fair, 

Making  a glory  out  of  gloom  : — 


230 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CLAY. 


Till  at  the  window  mock’d  grim  Care : 

Love  sigh’d;  “ All  lose,  and  nothing  win?” — 
He  shut  the  door. 

Then  o’er  the  close-barr’d  house  of  clay 
Kind  clematis  and  woodbine  gay 
Crept  more  and  more ; 

And  bees  humm’d  merrily  outside 

Loud  and  strong,  loud  and  strong, 

The  inner  silentness  to  hide, 

The  patient  silence  all  day  long ; 

Till  evening  touch’d  with  finger  gray 
The  bolted  door. 

Most  like,  the  next  step  passing  by 
Will  be  the  Angel’s,  whose  calm  eye 
Marks  rich,  marks  poor : 

Who,  pausing  not  at  any  gate, 

Stands  and  calls,  stands  and  calls  ; 

At  which  the  inmate  opens  straight, — 

Whom,  ere  the  crumbling  clay- house  falls, 
He  takes  in  kind  arms  silently, 

And  shuts  the  door. 


WINTER  MOONLIGHT. 


Loud- voiced  night,  with  the  wild  wind  blowin 
Many  a tune ; 

Stormy  night,  with  white  rain-clouds  going 
Over  the  moon ; 

Mystic  night,  that  each  minute  changes, — 

Now  as  blue  as  the  mountain- ranges 
Far,  far  away ; 

Now  as  black  as  a heart  where  strange  is 
Joy,  night  or  day. 

Wondrous  moonlight,  unlike  all  moonlights 
Since  I was  born  ; 

That  on  a hundred,  bright  as  noonlights, 
Looks  in  slow  scorn, — 


232 


WINTER  MOONLIGHT. 


Moonlights  where  the  old  vine-leaves  quiver, 
Moonlights  shining  on  vale  and  river. 

Where  old  paths  lie  ; 

Moonlights — Night,  blot  their  like  for  ever 
Out  of  the  sky  ! 

Hail,  new  moonlight,  fierce,  wild,  and  stormy. 
Wintry  and  bold  ! 

Hail,  sharp  wind,  that  can  strengthen,  warm  me, 
If  ne’er  so  cold  ! 

Not  chance-driven  this  deluge  rages, 

One  doth  pour  out  and  One  assuages ; 

Under  His  hand 

Drifting,  Noah-like,  into  the  ages, 

I shall  touch  land. 


THE  PLANTING. 


“I  said  to  my  little  son,  who  was  watching  tearfully  a tree  he 
had  planted — ‘ Let  it  alone  : it  will  grow  while  you  are 
sleeping.’  ” 

Plant  it  safe  and  sure,  my  child, 

Then  cease  watching  and  cease  weeping ; 
You  have  done  your  utmost  part : 

Leave  it  with  a quiet  heart : 

It  will  grow  while  you  are  sleeping. 

“ But,  0 father/’  says  the  child, 

With  a troubled  face  up- creeping, 

“ How  can  I but  think  and  grieve 
When  the  fierce  wind  comes  at  eve 
Tearing  it — and  I lie  sleeping  ! 


234 


THE  PLANTING. 


“ I have  loved  my  young  tree  so  ! 

In  each  bud  seen  leaf  and  floweret. 
Water’d  it  each  day  with  prayers, 

Guarded  it  with  many  cares, 

Lest  some  canker  should  devour  it. 

“ 0 good  father,”  sobs  the  child, 

“ If  I come  in  summer’s  shining, 

And  my  pretty  tree  be  dead, 

How  the  sun  will  scorch  my  head, 

How  I shall  sit  lorn,  repining ! 

“ Rather  let  me  evermore, 

An  incessant  watch  thus  keeping, 

Bear  the  cold,  the  storm,  the  frost, 

That  my  treasure  be  not  lost — 

Ay,  bear  aught — but  idle  sleeping.” 

Sternly  said  the  father  then, 

“ Who  art  thou,  child,  vainly  grieving 


THE  PLANTING. 


235 


Canst  thou  send  the  balmy  dews, 

Or  the  rich  sap  interfuse 

Through  the  dead  trunk,  inly  living  P 

“ Canst  thou  bid  the  heavens  restrain 
Natural  tempests  for  thy  praying  ? 
Canst  thou  bend  one  tender  shoot, 

Urge  the  growth  of  one  frail  root. 

Keep  one  leaflet  from  decaying  ? 

“ If  it  live  to  bloom  all  fair, 

Will  it  praise  thee  for  its  blossom  ? 

If  it  die,  will  any  plaints 
Reach  thee,  as  with  kings  and  saints 
Drops  it  to  the  cold  earth’s  bosom  ? 

“ Plant  it — all  thou  canst ! — with  prayers  : 
It  is  safe  ’neath  His  sky’s  folding 
Who  the  whole  earth  compasses, 

Whether  we  watch  more  or  less, 


His  wide  eye  all  things  beholding. 


236 


THE  PLANTING. 


“ Should  He  need  a goodly  tree 
For  the  shelter  of  the  nations, 

He  will  make  it  grow : if  not, 

Never  yet  His  love  forgot 

Human  love,  and  faith,  and  patience. 

“ Leave  thy  treasure  in  His  hand — 

Cease  all  watching  and  all  weeping  : 
Years  hence,  men  its  shade  may  crave. 
And  its  mighty  branches  wave 

Beautiful  above  thy  sleeping.” 

If  his  hope,  tear-sown,  that  child 
Garner’d  after  joyful  reaping, 

Know  I not : yet  unawares 

Gleams  this  truth  through  many  cares, 

“ It  will  grow  while  thou  art  sleeping . 


SITTING  ON  THE  SHORE. 


The  tide  lias  ebb’d  away  : 

No  more  wild  dashings  ’gainst  the  adamant 
rocks, 

Nor  swayings  amidst  seaweed  false  that  mocks 
The  hues  of  gardens  gay  : 

No  laugh  of  little  wavelets  at  their  play : 
No  lucid  pools  reflecting  heaven’s  clear  brow — 
Both  storm  and  calm  alike  are  ended  now. 

The  rocks  sit  gray  and  lone : 

The  shifting  sand  is  spread  so  smooth  and  dry, 
That  not  a tide  might  ever  have  swept  by 
Stirring  it  with  rude  moan : 

Only  some  weedy  fragments  idly  thrown 
To  rot  beneath  the  sky,  tell  what  has  been : 

But  Desolation’s  self  has  grown  serene. 


238 


SITTING  ON  THE  SHORE. 


Afar  the  mountains  rise, 

And  the  broad  estuary  widens  out, 

All  sunshine ; wheeling  round  and  round  about 
Seaward,  a white  bird  flies. 

A bird  ? Nay,  seems  it  rather  in  these  eyes 
A spirit,  o’er  Eternity’s  dim  sea 
Calling — “ Come  thou  where  all  we  glad  souls 
be.” 

0 life,  0 silent  shore, 

Where  we  sit  patient ; 0 great  sea  beyond, 

To  which  we  turn  with  solemn  hope  and  fond, 
But  sorrowful  no  more  : 

A little  while,  and  then  we  too  shall  soar 
Like  white-wing’d  sea-birds  into  the  Infinite 
Deep  : 

Till  then,  Thou,  Father — wilt  our  spirits  keep. 


EUDOXIA. 


FIRST  PICTURE. 

0 sweetest  my  sister,  my  sister  that  sits  in  the 
sun, 

Her  lap  full  of  jewels,  and  roses  in  showers  oil 
her  hair  ; 

Soft  smiling  and  counting  her  riches  up  slow, 
one  by  one, 

Cool-browed,  shaking  dew  from  her  garlands — 
those  garlands  so  fair, 

Many  gasp,  climb,  snatch,  struggle,  and  die  for 
— her  every-day  wear  ! 

0 beauteous  my  sister,  turn  downwards  those 
mild  eyes  of  thine, 

Lest  they  stab  with  their  smiling,  and  blister  or 
scorch  where  they  shine. 

Young  sister  who  never  yet  sat  for  an  hour  in 
the  cold, 


240 


EUDOXIA. 


Whose  cheek  scarcely  feels  half  the  roses  that 
throng  to  caress, 

Whose  light  hands  hold  loosely  these  jewels 
and  silver  and  gold, 

Remember  thou  those  in  the  world  who  for  ever 
on  press 

In  perils  and  watchings,  and  hunger  and  naked- 
ness, 

While  thou  sitt’st  content  in  this  sunlight  that 
round  thee  doth  shine. 

Take  heed ! these  have  long  borne  their  burthen 
— now  lift  thou  up  thine. 

Be  meek — as  befits  one  whose  cup  to  the  brim 
is  love- crown’d, 

While  others  in  dry  dust  drop  empty — What, 
what  canst  thou  know 

Of  the  wild  human  tide  that  goes  sweeping 
eternally  round 

The  isle  where  thou  sitt’st  pure  and  calm  as  a 
statue  of  snow, 


EUDOXIA. 


241 


Around  wliicli  good  thoughts  like  kind  angels 
continually  go  ? 

Be  pitiful.  Whose  eyes  once  turn’d  from  the 
angels  to  shine 

Upon  publicans,  sinners  ? 0 sister,  ’t  will  not 

pollute  thine. 

Who,  even-eyed,  looks  on  His  children,  the  black 
and  the  fair, 

The  loved  and  the  unloved,  the  tempted,  un- 
tempted— marks  all, 

And  metes — not  as  man  metes  ? If  thou  with 
weak,  tender  hand  dare 

To  take  up  His  balances — say  where  His  justice 
should  fall, 

Far  better  be  Magdalen  dead  at  the  gate  of  thy 
hall— 

Dead,  sinning,  and  loving,  and  contrite,  and 
pardon’d,  to  shine 

Midst  the  saints  high  in  heaven,  than  thou, 

angel  sister  of  mine  ! 

16 


EUDOXIA. 


SECOND  PICTURE. 

0 dearest  my  sister,  my  sister  who  sits  by  the 
hearth, 

With  lids  softly  drooping,  or  lifted  up  saintly 
and  calm, 

With  household  hands  folded,  or  open’d  for 
help  and  for  balm, 

And  lips,  ripe  and  dewy,  or  ready  for  innocent 
mirth, — 

Thy  life  rises  upwards  to  heaven  every  day  like 
a psalm 

Which  the  singer  sings  sleeping,  and  waked, 
would  half  wondering  say — 

“ I sang  not.  Nay,  how  could  I sing  thus  P — I 
only  do  pray.” 


EUDOXIA. 


243 


0 gentlest  my  sister,  who  walks  in  at  every 
dark  door 

Whether  bolted  or  open,  unheedful  of  welcome 
or  frown ; 

But  entering  silent  as  sunlight,  and  there  sitting 
down, 

Illumines  the  damp  walls  and  shines  pleasant 
shapes  on  the  floor, 

And  unlocks  dim  chambers  where  low  lies  sad 
Hope,  without  crown, 

Uplifts  her  from  sackcloth  and  ashes  and  black 
mourning  weeds, 

Re-crowns  and  re-clothes  her. — Then,  on  to  the 
next  door  that  needs. 


0 blessed  my  sister,  whose  spirit  so  wholly 
dost  live 

In  loving,  that  even  the  word  “loved,”  with  its 
rapturous  sound, 


16  * 


244 


EUDOXIA. 


Rings  faintly,  like  earth-tunes  when  angels  are 
hymning  around : 

Whose  eyes  say  : “ Less  happy  methinks  to  re- 
ceive than  to  give.” — 

So  whatsoe’er  we  give,  may  One  give  to  thee 
without  bound 

All  best  gifts — all  dearest  gifts.  Whether  His 
right  hand  do  close 

Or  open — He  holds  it  for  ever  above  thee ; — 
He  knows ! 


EUDOXIA. 


THIRD  PICTURE. 

0 silent  my  sister,  who  stands  by  my  side  at 
the  shore, 

Back  gazing  with  me  on  those  waves  which  we 
mortals  caU  years, 

That  rose,  grew,  and  threaten’d,  and  climax’d, 
and  broke,  and  were  o’er, 

While  we  still  sit  watching  and  watching,  our 
cheeks  free  from  tears — 

0 sister,  with  looks  so  familiar,  yet  strange, 
flitting  by, 

Say,  say,  hast  thou  been  to  those  dead  years  as 
faithful  as  I ? 

Have  they  cast  at  thy  feet,  also,  jewels  and 
whitening  bones, 

Gold,  silver,  and  wreck- wood,  dank  seaweed  and 
treasures  of  cost  ? 


246 


EUDOXIA. 


Hast  thou  buried  thy  dead,  sought  thy  jewels 
’midst  shingle  and  stones, 

And  learnt  how  the  lost  is  the  found,  and  the 
found  is  the  lost  ? 

Or  stood  with  clear  eyes  upturn’d  placid  ’twixt 
sorrow  and  mirth, 

As  asking  deep  questions  that  cannot  be  an- 
swer’d on  earth  ? — 

I know  not.  Who  knoweth  ? Our  own  souls 
we  scarcely  do  know, 

And  none  knows  his  brother’s.  Who  judges, 
contemns,  or  bewails, 

Or  mocketh,  or  praiseth  ? In  this  world’s 
strange  vanishing  show, 

The  one  truth  is  loving . 0 sister,  the  dark 

cloud  that  veils 

All  life,  lets  this  rift  through  to  glorify  future 
and  past. 

“ Love  ever — love  only — love  faithfully — love 


to  the  last.” 


BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 


I. 

THE  NOVICE. 

It  is  near  morning.  Ere  the  next  night  fall 
I shall  be  made  the  bride  of  heaven.  Then 
home 

To  my  still  marriage  chamber  I shall  come, 

And  spouseless,  childless,  watch  the  slow  years 
crawl. 

These  lips  will  never  meet  a softer  touch 
Than  the  stone  crucifix  I kiss ; no  child 
Will  clasp  this  neck.  Ah,  virgin-mother  mild, 

Thy  painted  bliss  will  mock  me  overmuch. 

This  is  the  last  time  I shall  twist  the  hair 
My  mother’s  hand  wreath’d,  till  in  dust  she 
lay : 


248  BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 

The  name,  her  name,  given  on  my  baptism- 
day, 

This  is  the  last  time  I shall  ever  bear. 

0 weary  world,  0 heavy  life,  farewell ! 

Like  a tired  child  that  creeps  into  the  dark 
To  sob  itself  asleep,  where  none  will  mark, — 
So  creep  I to  my  silent  convent  cell. 

Friends,  lovers  whom  I loved  not,  kindly  hearts 
Who  grieve  that  I should  enter  this  still  door, 
Grieve  not.  Closing  behind  me  evermore, 

Me  from  all  anguish,  as  all  joy,  it  parts. 

Love,  whom  alone  I loved  ; who  stand'st  far  off, 
Lifting  compassionate  eyes  that  could  not 
save, 

Remember,  this  my  spirit's  quiet  grave 
Hides  me  from  worldly  pity,  worldly  scoff. 

'T  was  less  thy  hand  than  Heaven's  which  came 
between, 

And  dash'd  my  cup  down.  See,  I shed  no 


tears : 


BEXEDETTA  MINELLI. 


219 


And  if  I think  at  all  of  vanish’d  years, 

’T  is  but  to  bless  thee,  dear,  for  what  has  been. 

My  sold  continually  does  cry  to  thee, 

In  the  night  watches  ghost-like  stealing  out 
From  its  flesh  tomb,  and  hovering  thee  about ; 
So  live  that  I in  heaven  thy  face  may  see  ! 

Live,  noble  heart,  of  whom  this  heart  of  mine 
TV  as  half  unworthy.  Build  up  actions  great, 
That  I down  looking  from  the  crystal  gate 
Smile  o’er  our  dead  hopes  urn’d  in  such  a shrine. 

i 

Live,  keeping  aye  thy  spirit  undefiled, 

That,  when  we  stand  before  our  Master’s  feet, 
I with  an  angel’s  love  may  crown  complete 
The  woman’s  faith,  the  worship  of  the  child. 

Dawn,  solemn  bridal  morn,  ope,  bridal  door, 

I enter.  My  vow’d  soul  may  Heaven  now 
take ; 

My  heart  its  virgin  spousal  for  thy  sake, 

0 love,  keeps  sacred  thus  for  evermore. 


BEKEDETTA  MINELLI. 


II. 


THE  SISTER  OE  MERCY. 

Is  it  then  so  ? — Good  friends,  who  sit  and  sigh 
While  I lie  smiling,  are  my  life’s  sands  run  ? 
Will  my  next,  matins  hymn’d  beyond  the  sun, 
Mingle  with  those  of  saints  and  martyrs  high  ? 

Shall  I with  these,  my  grey  hairs  turn’d  to  gold, 
My  aged  limbs  new  clad  in  garments  white, 
Stand  all  transfigured  in  the  angels’  sight, 
Singing  triumphantly  that  moan  of  old. 


BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 


251 


Thy  will  he  done.  It  was  done.  0 my  God, 
Thou  know’st,  when  over  griefs  tempestuous 
sea 

My  broken- winged  soul  fled  home  to  Thee, 

I writhed,  but  never  murmur’d  at  Thy  rod. 

It  fell  upon  me,  stern  at  first,  then  soft 

As  parents’  kisses,  till  the  wound  was  heal’d, 
And  I went  forth  a labourer  in  Thy  field : — 
They  best  can  bind  who  have  been  bruised  oft. 

And  Thou  wert  pitiful.  I came  heart-sore, 

And  drank  Thy  cup  because  earth’s  cups  ran 
dry: 

Thou  slew’st  me  not  for  that  impiety, 

But  madest  the  draught  so  sweet,  I thirst  no 
more. 

I came  for  silence,  heavy  rest,  or  death : 

Thou  gavest  instead  life,  peace,  and  holy  toil : 
My  sighing  lips  from  sorrow  didst  assoil, 

And  fill  with  righteous  thankfulness  each  breath. 


252 


BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 


Therefore  I praise  Thee  that  Thou  clos’dst 
Thine  e^rs 

Unto  my  misery  : didst  Thy  will,  not  mine  : 
That  to  this  length  of  days  Thy  hand  divine, 

My  feet  from  falling  kept,  mine  eyes  from  tears. 

Sisters,  draw  near.  Hear  my  last  words  serene  : 
When  I was  young  I walk’d  in  mine  own 
ways, 

Worshipp’d — not  God  : sought  not  alone  His 
praise, 

So  He  cut  down  my  gourd  while  it  was  green. 

And  then  He  o’er  me  threw  His  holy  shade, 
That  though  no  other  mortal  plants  might 
grow, 

Mocking  the  beauty  that  was  long  laid  low, 

I dwelt  in  peace,  and  His  commands  obey’d. 

I thank  Him  for  all  joy  and  for  all  pain : 

For  healed  pangs,  for  years  of  calm  content : 


BENEDETTA  MINELLI. 


253 


For  blessedness  of  spending  and  being  spent 
In  His  liigli  service  where  all  loss  is  gain. 

I bless  Him  for  my  life  and  for  my  death ; 

But  most,  that  in  my  death  my  life  is  crown’d, 
Since  I see  there,  with  angels  gathering  round, 
My  angel.  Ay,  love,  thou  hast  kept  thy  faith. — 

I mine.  The  golden  portals  will  not  close 
Like  those  of  earth,  between  us.  Reach  thy 
hand  ! 

No  miserere , sisters.  Chant  out  grand 
Te  Deum  laudamus.  Now — ’t  is  all  repose. 


A DREAM  OF  DEATH. 


“ Where  shall  we  sail  to-day  ?y ’ — Thus  said, 
inethought, 

A voice,  that  only  could  be  heard  in  dreams  : 
And  on  we  glided  without  mast  or  oar, 

A wondrous  boat  upon  a wondrous  sea. 

Sudden,  the  shore  curved  inward  to  a bay, 
Broad,  calm,  with  gorgeous  sea-weeds  waving 
slow 

Beneath  the  water,  like  rich  thoughts  that  stir 
In  the  mysterious  deep  of  poets’  hearts. 


A DREAM  OF  DEATH. 


255 


So  still,  so  fair,  so  rosy  in  the  dawn 
Lay  that  bright  bay : yet  something  seem’d  to 
breathe, 

Or  in  the  air,  or  from  the  whispering  waves, 

Or  from  that  voice,  as  near  as  one’s  own  soul, 

“ There  was  a wreck  last  night”  A wreck  P then 
where 

The  ship,  the  crew  ? — The  all-entombing  sea 
On  which  is  writ  nor  name  nor  chronicle 
Laid  itself  o’er  them  with  smooth  crystal  smile. 

“ Yet  was  the  wreck  last  night.”  And  gazing  down 
Deep  down  below  the  surface,  we  were  ware 
Of  ghastly  faces  with  their  open  eyes 
I7plooking  to  the  dawn  they  could  not  see. 

One  moved  with  moving  sea-weeds : one  lay 
prone, 

The  tinted  fishes  gliding  o’er  his  breast ; 

One,  caught  by  floating  hair,  rock’d  quietly 
L^pon  his  reedy  cradle,  like  a child. 


256 


A DREAM  OF  DEATH. 


“The  wreck  has  been” — said  the  melodious  voice, 
“ Yet  all  is  peace.  The  dead,  that,  while  we  slept, 
Struggled  for  life,  now  sleep  and  fear  no  storms  : 
O’er  them  let  us  not  weep  when  heaven  smiles.” 

So  we  sail’d  on  above  the  diamond  sands, 

Bright  sea-flowers,  and  white  faces  stony  calm, 
Till  the  waves  bore  us  to  the  open  main, 

And  the  great  sun  arose  upon  the  world. 


A DREAM  OF  RESURRECTION. 


So  heavenly  beautiful  it  lay, 

It  was  less  like  a human  corse 
Than  that  fair  shape  in  which  perforce 

A lost  hope  clothes  itself  alway. 

The  dream  show’d  very  plain  : the  bed 

Where  that  known  unknown  face  reposed — 
A woman’s  face  with  eyelids  closed, 

A something  precious  that  was  dead ; 

A something,  lost  on  this  side  life, 

By  which  the  mourner  came  and  stood, 

And  laid  down,  ne’er  to  be  indued, 

All  flaunting  robes  of  earthly  strife  ; 

Shred  off,  like  votive  locks  of  hair, 

Youth’s  ornaments  of  pride  and  strength, 
And  cast  them  in  their  golden  length 

The  silence  of  that  bier  to  share. 

17 


258 


A DREAM  OF  RESURRECTION. 


JSTo  tears  fell — bur  with  gazings  long 
Lorn  memory  tried  to  print  that  face 
On  the  heart’s  ever- vacant  place, 

With  a sun-finger,  sharp  and  strong. — 

Then  kisses,  dropping  without  sound, 

And  solemn  arms  wound  round  the  dead, 
And  lifting  from  the  natural  bed 
Into  the  coffin’s  strange  new  bound. 

Yet  still  no  farewell,  or  belief 

In  death  ; no  more  than  one  believes 
In  some  dread  truth  that  sudden  weaves 
The  whole  world  in  a shroud  of  grief. 

And  still  un answer’d  kisses ; still 
Warm  clingings  to  the  image  cold 
With  an  incredulous  faith’s  close  fold, 
Creative  in  its  fierce  “I will” 


A DREAM  OF  RESURRECTION. 


259 


Hush — hush  ! the  marble  eyelids  move, 

The  kiss’d  lips  quiver  into  breath  : 

Avaunt,  thou  mockery  of  Death  ! 

Avaunt ! — we  are  conquerors,  I and  Love. 

Corpse  of  dead  Hope,  awake,  arise, 

A living  Hope  that  only  slept 
Until  the  tears  thus  overwept 

Had  wash’d  the  blindness  from  our  eyes. 

Come  back  into  the  upper  day  : 

Pluck  off  these  cerements.  Patient  shroud, 
We  ’ll  wrap  thee  as  a garment  proud 

Round  the  fair  shape  we  thought  was  clay. 

Clasp,  arms ; cling,  soul ; eyes,  drink  anew 
The  beauty  that  returns  with  breath  : 

Faith,  that  out-loved  this  trance-like  death, 

May  see  this  resurrection  too. 


ON  THE  CLIFF-TOP. 


Face  upward  to  the  sky 
Quiet  I lie : 

Quiet  as  if  the  finger  of  Grod’s  will 
Had  bade  this  human  mechanism  “ be  still ! ” 
And  sent  the  intangible  essence,  this  strange  I, 
All  wondering  forth  to  His  eternity. 

Below,  the  sea’s  sound,  faint 
As  dying  saint 

Telling  of  gone-by  sorrows  long  at  rest : 

Above,  the  fearless  sea-gull’s  shimmering  breast 
Painted  a moment  on  the  dark  blue  skies — 

A hovering  joy,  that  while  I watch  it  flies. 


ON  THE  CLIFF-TOT. 


261 


Alike  unheeded  now 
Old  griefs,  and  thou, 

Quick- winged  Joy,  that,  like  a bird  at  play 
Pleasest  thyself  to  visit  me  to-day : 

On  the  cliff-top,  earth  dim  and  heaven  clear, 

My  soul  lies  calmly,  above  hope — or  fear. 

But  not — (do  Thou  forbid 
Whose  stainless  lid 

Wept  tears  at  Lazarus’  grave,  and  looking  down 
Afar  off,  upon  Solyma’s  doom’d  town — ) 

Ah,  not  above  love — human  yet  divine — 

Which,  Thee  seen  first,  in  Thee  sees  all  of  Thine ! 

Is ’t  sunset  ? The  keen  breeze 
Blows  from  the  seas  : 

And  at  my  side  a pleasant  vision  stands 
With  her  brown  eyes  and  kind  extended  hands. 
Dear,  we  ’ll  go  down  together  and  full  fain 
From  the  cliff- top  to  the  busy  world  again. 


AN  EVENING-  GEEST. 


V 


If  in  the  silence  of  this  lonely  eve, 

With  the  street  lamp  pale  flickering  on  the 
wall, 

An  angel  were  to  whisper  me — ■“  Believe — 

It  shall  he  given  thee.  Call ! ” — whom  should 
I call  ? 

And  then  I were  to  see  thee  gliding  in, 

Clad  in  known  garments,  that  with  empty  fold 
Lie  in  my  keeping,  and  my  fingers,  thin 
As  thine  were  once,  to  feel  in  thy  safe  hold : 


AX  EVENING  GUEST. 


263 


I should  fall  weeping  on  thy  neck  and  say, 

“I  have  so  suffer’d  since — since” — But  my 
tears 

Would  stop,  remembering  how  thou  count’st  thy 
day, 

A day  that  is  with  Grod  a thousand  years. 

Then  what  are  these  sad  days,  months,  years  of 
mine, 

To  thine  eternity  of  full  delight  ? 

What  my  whole  life,  when  myriad  lives  divine 
May  wait,  each  leading  to  a higher  height  ? 

I lose  myself — I faint.  Beloved,  best, 

Let  me  still  dream,  thy  dear  humanity 

Sits  with  me  here,  my  head  upon  thy  breast, 
And  then  I will  go  back  to  heaven  with  thee. 


AFTER  SUNSET. 


Rest — rest — four  little  letters,  one  short  word, 
Enfolding  an  infinitude  of  bliss — 

Rest  is  upon  the  earth.  The  heavy  clouds 
Hang  poised  in  silent  ether,  motionless, 

Seeking  nor  sun  nor  breeze.  No  restless  star 
Thrills  the  sky’s  gray-robed  breast  with  pulsing 
rays, 

The  night’s  heart  has  throbb’d  out. 

No  grass  blade  stirs, 

No  downy-winged  moth  comes  flittering  by 
Caught  by  the  light — Thank  God,  there  is  no 
light, 

No  open-eyed,  loud-voiced,  quick-motion’d  light, 
Nothing  but  gloom  and  rest. 


AFTER  SUNSET. 


265 


A row  of  trees 

Along  the  hill  horizon,  westward,  stands 
All  black  and  still,  as  if  it  were  a rank 
Of  fallen  angels,  melancholy  met 
Before  the  amber  gate  of  Paradise — 

The  bright  shut  gate,  whose  everlasting  smile 
Deadens  despair  to  calm. 

0,  better  far, 

Better  than  bliss  is  rest ! If  suddenly 
Those  burnish’d  doors  of  molten  gold,  steel- 
barr’d, 

Which  the  sun  closed  behind  him  as  he  went 
Into  his  bridal  chamber — were  to  burst 
Asunder  with  a clang,  and  in  a breath 
God’s  mysteries  were  reveal’d — His  kingdom 
came — 

The  multitudes  of  heavenly  messengers 
Hastening  throughout  all  space — the  thunder 
quire 


266 


AFTER  SUNSET. 


Of  praise — tlie  obedient  lightnings’  lambent 
gleam 

Around  the  unseen  Throne — should  I not  sink, 
Crush’d  by  the  weight  of  such  beatitudes, 
Crying,  “ Rest,  only  rest,  thou  merciful  God ! 
Hide  me  within  the  hollow  of  Thy  hand 
In  some  dark  corner  of  the  universe, 

Thy  bright,  full,  busy  universe,  that  blinds, 
Deafens,  and  tortures — Give  me  only  rest ! ” 


0 for  a soul-sleep,  long  and  deep  and  still ! 

To  lie  down  quiet  after  the  weary  day, 

Dropping  all  pleasant  flowers  from  the  numb’d 
hands, 

Bidding  good-night  to  all  companions  dear, 
Drawing  the  curtains  on  this  darken’d  world, 
Closing  the  eyes,  and  with  a patient  sigh 
Murmuring,  “ Our  Father,” — fall  on  sleep,  till 
dawn ! 


THE  GARDEN-CHAIR. 


TWO  PORTRAITS. 

A pleasant  picture,  full  of  meanings  deep. 

Old  age,  calm  sitting  in  the  July  sun, 

On  wither’d  hands  half-leaning — feeble  hands, 
That  after  their  life-labours,  light  or  hard, 

Their  girlish  broideries,  their  marriage-ring’d 
Domestic  duties,  their  sweet  cradle  cares, 

Have  dropp’d  into  the  quiet^folded  ease 
Of  fourscore  years.  How  peacefully  the  eyes 
Face  us  ! Contented,  unregretful  eyes, 

That  carry  in  them  the  whole  tale  of  life 
With  its  one  moral — “ Thus  all  was — thus  best.” 
Eyes  now  so  near  unto  their  closing  mild, 

They  seem  to  pierce  direct  through  all  that  maze, 
As  eyes  immortal  do. 


268 


THE  GARDEN-CHAIR. 


Here — Youth.  She  stands 
Under  the  roses,  with  elastic  foot 
Poised  to  step  forward ; eager- eyed,  yet  grave 
Beneath  the  mystery  of  the  unknown  To- come, 
Though  longing  for  its  coming.  Firm  prepared 
(So  say  the  lifted  head,  and  close,  sweet  mouth) 
For  any  future  : though  the  dreamy  hope, 
Throned  on  her  girlish  forehead,  whispers  fond, 
“ Surely  they  err  who  say  that  life  is  hard  ; 
Surely  it  shall  not  be  with  me  as  these.” 

God  knows  : He  only.  And  so  best,  dear  child, 
Thou  woman-statured,  sixteen -year- old  child, 
Meet  bravely  the  impenetrable  Dark 
Under  thy  roses.  Bud  and  blossom  thou 
Fearless  as  they — if  thou  art  planted  safe, 
Whether  for  gathering  or  for  withering,  safe 
In  the  King’s  garden. 


AN  OLD  IDEA. 


Stream  of  my  life,  dull,  placid  river,  flow ! 

I have  no  fear  of  the  engulphing  seas : 

Neither  I look  before  me  nor  behind, 

But  lying  mute  with  wave-dipp’d  hand,  float  on. 

It  was  not  always  so.  My  brethren,  see 
This  oar- stain’d,  trembling  palm.  It  keeps  the 
sign 

Of  youth’s  mad  wrestling  with  the  waves  that 
drift 

Immutably,  eternally  along. 


270 


AN  OLD  IDEA. 


I would  have  had  them  flow  through  fields  and 
flowers, 

Giving  and  taking  freshness,  perfume,  joy ; 

It  winds  through — here.  Be  silent,  0 my  soul ! 
— The  finger  of  God’s  wisdom  drew  its  line. 

So  I lean  back  and  look  up  to  the  stars, 

And  count  the  ripples  circling  to  the  shore, 

And  watch  the  solemn  river  rolling  on 
Until  it  widen  to  the  open  seas. 


PARABLES. 


“ Hold  every  mortal  joy 
With  a loose  hand.” 

We  clutch  our  joys  as  children  do  their  flowers; 
We  look  at  them,  but  scarce  believe  them  ours, 
Till  our  hot  palms  have  smirch’d  their  colours 
rare, 

And  crush’d  their  dewy  beauty  unaware. 

But  the  wise  Gardener,  whose  they  were,  comes 

by 

At  hours  when  we  expect  not,  and  with  eye 
Mournful  yet  sweet,  compassionate  though  stern, 
Takes  them. 


272 


PARABLES. 


Then  in  a moment  we  discern, 
By  loss,  what  was  possession,  and,  half  wild 
With  misery,  cry  out  like  angry  child : 
u O cruel ! thus  to  snatch  my  posy  fine  ! ” 

He  answers  tenderly,  “Not  thine,  but  mine/’ 
And  points  to  those  stain’d  fingers  which  do 
prove 

Our  fatal  cherishing,  our  dangerous  love ; 

At  which  we,  chidden,  a pale  silence  keep ; 

Yet  evermore  must  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep. 

So  on  through  gloomy  ways  and  thorny  brakes, 
Quiet  and  slow,  our  shrinking  feet  he  takes, 

Led  by  the  soiled  hand,  which,  laved  in  tears, 
More  and  more  clean  beneath  his  sight  appears. 
At  length  the  heavy  eyes  with  patience  shine — 
“ I am  content.  Thou  took’st  but  what  was 
thine.” 

And  then  he  us  his  beauteous  garden  shows, 
Where  bountiful  the  rose  of  Sharon  grows  : 


PAKABLES. 


273 


Where  in  the  breezes  opening  spice-buds  swell, 
And  the  pomegranates  yield  a pleasant  smell : 
While  to  and  fro  peace- sandaled  angels  move 
In  the  pure  air  that  they — not  we — call  Love : 
An  air  so  rare  and  fine  our  grosser  breath 
Cannot  inhale  till  purified  by  death. 

And  thus  we,  struck  with  longing  joy,  adore, 
And,  satisfied,  wait  mute  without  the  door, 
Until  the  gracious  Gardener  maketh  sign, 

“ Enter  in  peace.  All  this  is  mine — and  thine.55 


18 


LETTICE. 


I said  to  Lettice,  our  sister  Lettice, 

While  droop’d  and  glisten’d  her  eyelash 
brown, 

“ Your  man ’s  a poor  man,  a cold  and  dour  man, 
There’s  many  a better  about  our  town.” — 

She  smiled  securely — “ He  loves  me  purely  : 

A true  heart ’s  safe,  both  in  smile  or  frown ; 

And  nothing  harms  me  while  his  love  warms  me, 
Whether  the  world  go  up  or  down.” 

“ He  comes  of  strangers,  and  they  are  rangers, 
And  ill  to  trust,  girl,  when  out  of  sight : 

Fremd  folk  may  blame  ye,  and  e’en  defame  ye — 
A gown  oft  handled  looks  seldom  white.” 


LETTICE. 


275 


She  raised  serenely  her  eyelids  queenly, — 

“ My  innocence  is  my  whitest  gown  ; 

No  harsh  tongue  grieves  me  while  he  believes  me, 
Whether  the  world  go  up  or  down.” 

“ Your  man  ’s  a frail  man,  was  ne’er  a hale  man, 
And  sickness  knocketh  at  every  door, 

And  death  comes  making  bold  hearts  cower, 
breaking — ” 

Our  Lettice  trembled  ; — but  once,  no  more. 

“ If  death  should  enter,  smite  to  the  centre 
Our  poor  home  palace,  all  crumbling  down, 
He  cannot  fright  us,  nor  disunite  us, 

Life  bears  Love’s  cross,  death  brings  Love’s 
crown.” 


18 


A SPIRIT  PRESENT. 


X 

If,  coming  from  that  unknown  sphere 
Where  I believe  thou  art — 

The  world  unseen  which  girds  our  world 
So  close,  yet  so  apart, — 

Thy  souks  soft  call  unto  my  soul 
Electrical  could  reach, 

And  mortal  and  immortal  blend 
In  one  familiar  speech, — 

What  wouldst  thou  say  to  me  ? wouldst  ask 
What,  since  did  me  befall  ? 

Or  close  this  chasm  of  cruel  years 
Between  us — knowing  all  ? 

Wouldst  love  me — thy  pure  eyes  seeing  that 
God  only  saw  beside  ? 

Oh,  love  me  ! Twas  so  hard  to  live, 

So  easy  to  have  died. 


A SPIRIT  PRESENT. 


277 


If  while  this  dizzy  whirl  of  life 
A moment  pausing  stay’d, 

I face  to  face  with  thee  could  stand, 

I would  not  he  afraid : 

Not  though  from  heaven  to  heaven  thy  feet 
In  glad  ascent  have  trod, 

While  mine  took  through  earth’s  miry  ways 
Their  solitary  road. 

We  could  not  lose  each  other.  World 
On  world  piled  ever  higher 
Would  part  like  bank’d  clouds,  lightning- 
cleft 

By  our  two  souls’  desire. 

Life  ne’er  divided  us  ; death  tried, 

But  could  not ; love’s  voice  fine 
Call’d  luring  through  the  dark — then  ceased, 
And  I am  wholly  thine. 


A WINTER  WALK. 


We  never  had  believed,  I wis, 

At  primrose  time  when  west  winds  stole 
Like  thoughts  of  youth  across  the  soul, 
In  such  an  alter’d  time  as  this, 

When  if  one  little  flower  did  peep 

Up  through  the  brown  and  sullen  grass, 
We  should  just  look  on  it,  and  pass 
As  if  we  saw  it  in  our  sleep. 

Feeling  as  sure  as  that  this  ray 

Which  cottage  children  call  the  sun, 
Colours  the  pale  clouds  one  by  one, — 
Our  touch  would  make  it  drop  to  clay. 

We  never  could  have  look’d,  in  prime 
Of  April,  or  when  J uly  trees 
Shook  full- leaved  in  the  evening  breeze, 
Upon  the  face  of  this  pale  time, 


A WINTER  WALK. 


279 


Still,  soft,  familiar  ; shining  bleak 
On  naked  branches,  sodden  ground, 

Yet  shining — as  if  one  had  found 
A smile  upon  a dead  friend’s  cheek, 

Or  old  friend,  lost  for  years,  had  strange 
In  alter’d  mien  come  sudden  back, 
Confronting  us  with  our  great  lack — 

Till  loss  seem’d  far  less  sad  than  change. 

Yet  though,  alas  ! Hope  did  not  see 

This  winter  skeleton  through  full  leaves, 

Out  of  all  bareness  Faith  perceives 
Possible  life  in  field  and  tree. 

In  bough  and  trunk  the  sap  will  move, 

And  the  mould  break  o’er  springing  flowers  ; 
Nature  revives  with  all  her  powers, 

But  only  nature  ; — never  love. 

So,  listlessly  with  linked  hands 

Both  Faith  and  Hope  glide  soft  away ; 

While,  in  long  shadows  cool  and  gray, 

The  sun  sets  o’er  the  barren  lands. 


“ WILL  SAIL  TO-MORROW  ” 


The  good  ship  lies  in  the  crowded  dock, 
Fair  as  a statue,  firm  as  a rock  : 

Her  tall  masts  piercing  the  still  blue  air 
Her  funnel  glittering  white  and  bare, 
Whence  the  long  soft  line  of  vapoury  smoke 
Betwixt  sky  and  sea  like  a vision  broke, 

Or  slowly  o’er  the  horizon  curl’d, 

Like  a lost  hope  fled  to  the  other  world : 
She  sails  to-morrow — 

Sails  to-morrow. 

Out  steps  the  captain,  busy  and  grave, 
With  his  sailor’s  footfall,  quick  and  brave, 


WILL  SAIL  TO-MORROW. 


281 


(( 


>> 


His  hundred  thoughts  and  his  thousand  cares, 
And  his  steady  eye  that  all  things  dares  : 
Though  a little  smile  o’er  the  kind  face  dawns 
On  the  loving  brute  that  leaps  and  fawns, 

And  a little  shadow  comes  and  goes, 

As  if  heart  or  fancy  fled — where,  who  knows  ? 
He  sails  to-morrow — 

Sails  to-morrow. 


To-morrow  the  serried  line  of  ships 
Will  quick  close  after  her  as  she  slips 
Into  the  unknown  deep  once  more : 

To-morrow,  to-morrow,  some  on  shore 
With  straining  eyes  shall  desperate  yearn — 

“ This  is  not  parting  ? return — return  ! ” 

Peace,  wild- wrung  hands ! hush^  sobbing  breath  ! 
Love  keepeth  its  own  through  life  and  death ; 

Though  she  sails  to-morrow — 

Sails  to-morrow. 


282 


WILL  SAIL  TO-MORROWY 


<< 


J? 


Sail,  stately  ship  ; down  Southampton  water 
Gliding  fair  as  old  Nereus5  daughter  : 
Christian  ship,  that  for  burthen  bears 
Christians,  speeded  by  Christian  prayers  ; 
All  kind  angels,  follow  her  track  ! 

Pitiful  God,  bring  the  good  ship  back ! 

All  the  souls  in  her  for  ever  keep 
Thine , living  or  dying,  awake  or  asleep  : 
Then  sail  to-morrow ! 

Ship,  sail  to-morrow! 


AT  EVEN-TIDE. 


C.  N. — Died,  April  1857. 

What  spirit  is  it  that  doth  pervade 
The  silence  of  this  empty  room  P 

And  as  I lift  my  eyes,  what  shade 
Glides  off  and  vanishes  in  gloom  ? 

I could  believe  this  moment  gone, 

A known  form  fill’d  that  vacant  chair, 

That  those  kind  eyes  upon  me  shone 
I never  shall  see  anywhere  ! 

The  living  are  so  far  away  : 

But  thou — thou  seemest  strangely  near 

Knowest  all  my  silent  heart  would  say, 
Its  peace,  its  pain,  its  hope,  its  fear. 

And  from  thy  calm  supernal  height, 

And  wondrous  wisdom  newly  won, 


284 


AT  EVEN-TIDE. 


Smilest  on  all  our  poor  delight, 

And  petty  woe  beneath  the  sun. 

From  all  this  coil  thou  hast  slipp’d  away, 

As  softly  as  a cloud  departs 
Along  the  hill- side  purple  gray — 

Into  the  heaven  of  patient  hearts. 

Nothing  here  suffer’d,  nothing  miss’d, 

Will  ever  stir  from  its  repose 
The  death- smile  on  her  lips  unkiss’d, 

Who  all  things  loves  and  all  things  knows. 

And  I,  who,  ignorant  and  weak, 

Of  love  so  helpless — quick  to  pain, 

With  restless  longing  ever  seek 
The  unattainable  in  vain, 

Find  it  strange  comfort  thus  to  sit, 

While  the  loud  world  unheeded  rolls, 

And  clasp,  ere  yet  the  fancy  flit, 

A friend’s  hand  from  the  land  of  souls. 


A DEAD  SEA-GULL. 


Near  Liverpool. 

Lack-lustre  eye,  and  idle  wing, 

And  smirched  breast  that  skims  no  more, 
White  as  the  foam  itself,  the  wave — 

Hast  thou  not  even  a grave 
Upon  the  dreary  shore, 

Forlorn,  forsaken  thing  ? 

Thou  whom  the  deep  seas  could  not  drown, 
Nor  all  the  elements  affright, 

Flashing  like  thought  across  the  main, 
Mocking  the  hurricane, 

Screaming  with  shrill  delight 
When  the  great  ship  went  down. 


286 


A DEAD  SEA-GULL. 


Thee  not  thy  beauty  saved,  nor  mirth, 
Nor  daring,  nor  thy  humble  lot, 

One  among  thousands — in  quick  haste 
Fate  clutch’d  thee  as  she  past ; 

Dead — how,  it  matters  not : 
Corrupting,  earth  to  earth. 

And  not  a league  from  where  it  lies 
Lie  bodies  once  as  free  from  stain, 
And  hearts  as  gay,  as  this  sea  bird’s, 
Whom  all  the  preachers’  words 
Will  ne’er  make  white  again, 

Or  from  the  dead  to  rise. 

Rot,  pretty  bird,  in  harmless  clay  :™ 
We  sing  too  much  poetic  woes ; 

Let  us  be  doing  while  we  can  : 
Blessed  the  Christian  man 
Who  on  life’s  shore  seeks  those 
Dying  of  soul- decay. 


LOOKING  EAST. 


In  January,  1858. 


Little  white  clouds,  why  are  you  flying 
Over  the  sky  so  blue  and  cold  ? 

Fair  faint  hopes,  why  are  you  lying 

Over  my  heart  like  a white  cloud’s  fold  P 

Slender  green  leaves,  why  are  you  peeping 
Out  of  the  ground  where  the  snow  yet  lies  ? 

Toying  west  wind,  why  are  you  creeping 
Like  a child’s  breath  across  my  eyes  ? 

Hope  and  terror  by  turns  consuming, 

Lover  and  friend  put  far  from  me, — 

What  should  /do  with  the  bright  spring,  coming 
Like  an  angel  over  the  sea  ? 


288 


LOOKING  EAST. 


Over  the  cruel  sea  that  parted 

Me  from  mine  own,  and  rolls  between  ; — 

Out  of  the  woeful  east,  whence  darted 
Heaven’s  full  quiver  of  vengeance  keen. 

Day  teaches  day,  night  whispers  morning — 

“ Hundreds  are  weeping  their  dead,  while  thou 

Weeping  thy  living — Rise,  be  adorning 

Thy  brows,  unwidow’d,  with  smiles.” — But 
how  ? 

Oh,  had  he  married  me  ! — unto  anguish 
Hardship,  sickness,  peril  and  pain ; 

That  on  my  breast  his  head  might  languish 
In  lonely  jungle  or  scorching  plain  ; 

Oh,  had  we  stood  on  some  rampart  gory, 

Till  he — ere  Horror  behind  us  trod — 

Kiss’d  me,  and  kill’d  me — so,  with  his  glory, 
My  soul  went  happy  and  pure  to  God  ! 

Nay,  nay,  heaven  pardon  me  ! me,  sick-hearted, 
Living  this  long,  long  life-in-death  : 


LOOKING  EAST. 


289 


Many  there  are  far  wider  parted 

Who  under  one  roof-tree  breathe  one  breath. 

But  we  that  loved — whom  one  word  half- broken 
Had  drawn  together  close  soul  to  soul 
As  lip  to  lip — and  it  was  not  spoken, 
jSTor  may  be,  while  the  world’s  ages  roll. 

I sit  me  down  with  my  tears  all  frozen  : 

I drink  my  cup,  be  it  gall  or  wine  : 

For  I know,  if  he  lives,  I am  his  chosen — 

I know,  if  he  dies,  that  he  is  mine. 

If  love  in  its  silence  be  greater,  stronger 
Than  million  promises,  sighs,  or  tears — 

I will  wait  upon  Him  a little  longer 
Who  holdeth  the  balance  of  our  years. 

Little  white  clouds  like  angels  flying, 

Bring  the  spring  with  you  across  the  sea — 

Loving  or  losing,  living  or  dying, 

Lord,  remember,  remember  me  ! 

19 


OYER  THE  HILLS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 


A little  bird  flew  my  window  by, 

Twixt  the  level  street  and  tbe  level  sky, 
The  level  rows  of  houses  tall, 

The  long  low  sun  on  the  level  wall ; 

And  all  that  the  little  bird  did  say 
Was  “ Over  the  hills  and  far  away  A 

A little  bird  sang  behind  my  chair, 

From  the  level  line  of  corn-fields  fair, 

The  smooth  green  hedge-row’s  level  bound 
Not  a furlong  off — the  horizon’s  bound, 
And  the  level  lawn  where  the  sun  all  day 
Burns  : — “ Over  the  hills  and  far  away.” 


OVER  THE  HILLS  AND  FAR  AWAY.  291 


A little  bird  sings  above  my  bed, 

And  I know  if  I could  but  lift  my  head 
I would  see  the  sun  set,  round  and  grand, 

Upon  level  sea  and  level  sand, 

While  beyond  the  misty  distance  grey 
Is  “ Over  the  hills  and  far  away.” 

I think  that  a little  bird  will  sing 
Over  a grassy  mound,  next  spring 
Where  something  that  once  was  me,  ye  ’ll  leave 
In  the  level  sunshine,  morn  and  eve  : 

But  I shall  be  gone,  past  night,  past  day, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 


19  * 


TOO  LATE. 


“ Dowglas,  Dowglas,  tendir  and  treu.” 

Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 
In  the  old  likeness  that  I knew, 

I would  be  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Never  a scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 

I *d  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels  do  ; — 
Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

0 to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not ! 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were  few 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  in  heaven, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true  ? 


TOO  LATE 


293 


I never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas  ; 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you : 

Now  all  men  beside  seem  to  me  like  shadows — 

I love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 
Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew  ; 

As  I lay  my  heart  on  your  dead  heart,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


LOST  IN  THE  MIST. 


The  thin  white  snow-streaks  pencillin 
That  mountain's  shoulder  grey, 
While  in  the  west  the  pale  green  sky 
Smiled  back  the  dawning  day, 

Till  from  the  misty  east  the  sun 
Was  of  a sudden  born, 

Like  a new  soul  in  Paradise- 
How  long  it  seems  since  mom  ! 

One  little  hour,  0 round  red  sun. 

And  thou  and  I shall  come 
IJnto  the  golden  gate  of  rest, 

The  open  door  of  home  : 


LOST  IN  THE  MIST. 


295 


One  little  hour,  0 weary  sun, 

Delay  the  threaten’d  eve, 

Till  my  tired  feet  that  pleasant  door 
Enter  and  never  leave. 


Ye  rooks  that  fly  in  slender  file 
Into  the  thick’ ning  gloom, 

Ye  ’ll  scarce  have  reach’d  your  grim  grey  tower 
Ere  I have  reach’d  my  home ; 

Plover,  that  thrills  the  solitude 
With  such  an  eerie  cry, 

Seek  you  your  nest  ere  night-fall  comes, 

As  my  heart’s  nest  seek  I. 


0 light,  light  heart  and  heavy  feet, 
Patience  a little  while  ! 

Keep  the  warm  love-light  in  these  eyes 
And  on  these  lips  the  smile  : 


296 


LOST  IN  THE  MIST. 


Outspeed  the  mist,  the  gathering  mist 
That  follows  o’er  the  moor  ! — 

The  darker  grows  the  world  without 
The  brighter  seems  that  door. 

0 door,  so  close  yet  so  far  off ! 

0 mist,  that  nears  and  nears  ! 

What,  shall  I faint  in  sight  of  home 
Blinded — but  not  with  tears — 

’T  is  but  the  mist,  the  cruel  mist, 

Which  chills  this  heart  of  mine  : 

These  eyes,  too  weak  to  see  that  light— 
It  has  not  ceased  to  shine. 

A little  further,  further  yet : 

The  white  mist  crawls  and  crawls  ; 

It  hems  me  round,  it  shuts  me  in 
Its  great  sepulchral  walls  : 

No  earth — no  sky — no  path — no  light— 
A silence  like  the  tomb  : 


-o 


LOST  IN  THE  MIST. 


297 


Oh  me,  it  is  too  soon  to  die— 

And  I was  going  home  ! 

A little  further,  further  yet : 

My  limbs  are  young, — my  heart — 

0 heart,  it  is  not  only  life 
That  feels  it  hard  to  part : 

Poor  lips,  slow  freezing  into  calm, 
Numb’d  hands,  that  helpless  fall ; 

And,  a mile  off,  warm  lips,  fond  hands, 
Waiting  to  welcome  all ! 

1 see  the  pictures  in  the  room, 

The  figures  moving  round, 

The  very  flicker  of  the  fire 
Upon  the  pattern’d  ground  : 

0 that  I were  the  shepherd-dog 
That  guards  their  happy  door  ! 

Or  even  the  silly  household  cat 
That  basks  upon  the  floor  ! 


298 


LOST  IN  THE  MIST. 


0 that  I sat  one  minute’s  space 
Where  I have  sat  so  long ! 

0 that  I heard  one  little  word, 

Sweeter  than  angel’s  song  ! 

A pause — and  then  the  table  fills, 

The  harmless  mirth  brims  o’er  ; 

While  I— oh  can  it  be  Grod’s  will  ? — 

I die,  outside  the  door. 

My  body  fails — my  desperate  soul 
Struggles  before  it  go  : 

The  bleak  air ’s  full  of  voices  wild, 

But  not  the  voice  I know  ; 

Dim  shapes  come  wandering  through  the  dark, 
With  mocking,  curious  stares  ; 

Faces  long  strange  peer  glimmering  by- 
But  not  one  face  of  theirs. 

Lost,  lost,  and  such  a little  way 
From  that  dear  sheltering  door  ! 


LOST  IN  THE  MIST. 


299 


Lost,  lost,  out  of  the  loving  arms 
Left  empty  evermore  ! 

His  will  be  done.  0 gate  of  heaven, 

Fairer  than  earthly  door, 

Receive  me  ! Everlasting  arms, 

Enfold  me  evermore  ! 

And  so,  farewell  ********* 

What  is  this  touch 
Upon  my  closing  eyes  ? 

My  name  too,  that  I thought  to  hear 
Next  time  in  Paradise  ? 

Warm  arms — close  lips — Oh  saved,  saved,  saved! 
Across  the  deathly  moor 

Sought,  found — and  yonder  through  the  night 
Shineth  the  blessed  door. 


SEMPER  FIDELIS. 


“ Mine  own  familiar  friend,  in  whom  I trusted.” 


Think  you,  had  we  two  lost  fealty,  something 
would  not,  as  I sit 

With  this  book  upon  my  lap  here,  come  and 
overshadow  it  ? 

Hide  with  spectral  mists  the  pages,  under  each 
familiar  leaf 

Lurk,  and  clutch  my  hand  that  turns  it  with  the 
icy  clutch  of  grief? 

Think  you,  were  we  twain  divided,  not  by  dis- 
tance, time,  or  aught 

That  the  world  calls  separation,  but  we  smile  at, 
better  taught, 


SEMPER  FIDELTS. 


301 


That  I should  not  feel  the  dropping  of  each  link 
you  did  untwine 

Clear  as  if  you  sat  before  me  with  your  true  eyes 
fixed  on  mine  ? 

That  I should  not,  did  you  crumble  as  the  other 
false  friends  do 

To  the  dust  of  broken  idols,  know  it  without 
sight  of  you, 

By  some  shadow  darkening  daylight  in  the  fickle 
skies  of  spring, 

By  fold  fears  from  household  corners  crawling 
over  everything  P 


If  that  awful  gulf  were  opening  which  makes 
two,  however  near, 

Parted  more  than  we  were  parted,  dwelt  we  in 
each  hemisphere, — 


302 


SEMPER  EIDELIS. 


Could  I sit  here,  smiling  quiet  on  this  book 
within  my  hand, 

And  while  earth  was  cloven  beneath  me,  feel  no 
shock  nor  understand  ? 

No,  you  cannot,  could  not  alter.  No,  my  faith 
builds  safe  on  yours, 

Rock-like  ; though  the  winds  and  waves  howl, 
its  foundation  still  endures  : 

By  a man’s  will — “ See,  I hold  thee  : mine 
thou  art,  and  mine  shalt  be  ; ” 

By  a woman’s  patience — “ Sooner  doubt  I my 
own  soul  than  thee.” 


So,  Heaven  mend  us  ! we  ’ll  together  once  again 
take  counsel  sweet ; 

Though  this  hand  of  mine  drops  empty,  that 
blank  wall  my  blank  eyes  meet : 


SEMPER  FIDELIS. 


303 


Life  may  flow  on ; men  be  faithless, — ay  forsooth 
and  women  too  ! 

One  is  true  ; and  as  He  liveth,  I believe  in  truth 
— and  you. 


ONE  SUMMER  MORNING. 


It  is  but  a little  while  ago  : 

The  elm-leaves  have  scarcely  begun  to  drop  away ; 

The  sunbeams  strike  the  elm- trunk  just  where 
they  struck  that  day — 

Yet  all  seems  to  have  happen’d  long  ago. 

And  the  year  rolleth  round,  slow,  slow  : 

Autumn  will  fade  to  winter  and  winter  melt  in 
spring, 

New  life  return  again  to  every  living  thing. 

Soon,  this  will  have  happen’d  long  ago. 

The  bonnie  wee  flowers  will  blow ; 

The  trees  will  re- clothe  themselves,  the  birds  sing 
out  amain, — 

But  never,  never,  never  will  the  world  look  again 

As  it  look’d  before  this  happen’d — long  ago  ! 


MY  LOYE  ANNIE. 


Soft  of  voice  and  light  of  hand 
As  the  fairest  in  the  land ; — 

Who  can  rightly  understand 
My  love  Annie  ? 

Simple  in  her  thoughts  and  ways, 
True  in  every  word  she  says, — 
Who  shall  even  dare  to  praise 
My  love  Annie  ? 

Midst  a naughty  world  and  rude 
Never  in  ungentle  mood ; 

Never  tired  of  being  good — 

My  love  Annie. 

20 


306 


MY  LOVE  ANNIE. 


Hundreds  of  the  wise  and  great 
Might  overlook  her  meek  estate  ; 
But  on  her  good  angels  wait, 

My  love  Annie. 

Many  or  few  the  loves  that  may 
Shine  upon  her  silent  way, — 
God  will  love  her  night  and  day, 
My  love  Annie. 


SUMMER  GONE. 


Small  wren,  mute  pecking  at  the  last  red  plum, 
Or  twittering  idly  at  the  yellowing  boughs, 
Fruit-emptied,  over  thy  forsaken  house, — 
Birdie,  that  seems  to  come 
Telling,  we  too  have  spent  out  little  store, 

Our  summer  ’s  o’er  : 

Poor  robin,  driven  in  by  rain-storms  wild 
To  lie  submissive  under  household  hands 
With  beating  heart  that  no  love  under- 
stands, 

And  scared  eye,  like  a child 
Who  only  knows  that  he  is  all  alone 
Aad  summer ’s  gone  : 

20  * 


308 


SUMMER  GONE. 


Pale  leaves,  sent  flying  wide,  a frighten’d  flock, 
On  which  the  wolfish  wind  bursts  out,  and 
tears 

9 

Those  tender  forms  that  lived  in  summer 
airs, 

Till,  taken  at  this  shock, 

They,  like  weak  hearts  when  sudden  grief  sweeps 

by, 

Whirl,  drop,  and  die  : — 

All  these  things,  earthy,  of  the  earth — do  tell 
This  earth’s  perpetual  story  ; we  belong 
Unto  another  country,  and  our  song 
Shall  be  no  mortal  knell ; 

Though  all  the  year’s  tale,  as  our  years  run  fast, 
Mourns,  “ summer’s  past.” 

0 love  immortal,  0 perpetual  youth, 

Whether  in  budding  nooks  it  sits  and  sings 
As  hundred  poets  in  a hundred  springs, 

Or  slaking  passion’s  drouth 


SUMMER  GONE. 


309 


In  wine-press  of  affliction,  ever  goes 
Heavenward,  through,  woes  : 

0 youth  immortal — 0 undying  love  ! 

With  these  by  winter  fireside  we  ’ll  sit  down 
Wearing  our  snows  of  honour  like  a crown; 
And  sing  as  in  a grove, 

Where  the  full  nests  ring  out,  with  happy  cheer, 
“ Summer  is  here/*’ 

Roll  round,  strange  years ; swift  seasons,  come 
and  go ; 

Ye  leave  upon  us  only  an  outward  sign ; 

Ye  cannot  touch  the  inward  and  divine, 
While  Grod  alone  does  know  ; 

There  seal’d  till  summers,  winters,  all  shall  cease 
In  His  deep  peace. 

Therefore  uprouse  ye  winds  and  howl  your  will ; 
Beat,  beat,  ye  sobbing  rains,  on  pane  and 
door ; 


310 


SUMMER  GONE. 


Enter,  slow-footed  age,  and  thou,  obscure 
Grand  Angel — not  of  ill : 

Healer  of  every  wound,  whene’er  thou  come, 
Glad,  we  ’ll  go  home. 


THE  VOICE  CALLING. 


In  the  hush  of  April  weather, 

With  the  bees  in  budding  heather, 

And  the  white  clouds  floating,  floating,  and  the 
sunshine  falling  broad : 

While  my  children  down  the  hill 
Hun  and  leap,  and  I sit  still, — 

Through  the  silence,  through  the  silence  art  Thou 
calling,  0 my  God  ? 

Through  my  husband’s  voice  that  prayeth, 
Though  he  knows  not  what  he  sayeth, 

Is  it  Thou  who  in  Thy  holy  Word  hast  solemn 
words  for  me  ? 


312 


THE  VOICE  CALLING. 


And  when  he  clasps  me  fast, 

And  smiles  fondly  o’er  the  past, 

And  talks,  hopeful,  of  the  future — Lord,  do  I 
hear  only  Thee  ? 


Not  in  terror  nor  in  thunder 
Comes  Thy  voice,  although  it  sunder 
Flesh  from  spirit,  soul  from  body,  human  bliss 
from  human  pain : 

All  the  work  that  was  to  do, 

All  the  joys  so  sweet  and  new 
Which  Thou  shewed’ st  me  in  a vision — Moses- 
like — and  hid’st  again. 


From  this  Pisgah,  lying  humbled. 

The  long  desert  where  I stumbled 
And  the  fair  plains  I shall  never  reach,  seem 
equal,  clear  and  far  : 


THE  VOICE  CALLING. 


313 


On  this  mountain  top  of  ease 
Thou  wilt  bury  me  in  peace  ; 

While  my  tribes  march  onward,  onward,  unto 
Canaan  and  war. 

In  my  boy’s  loud  laughter  ringing, 

In  the  sigh  more  soft  than  singing 
Of  my  baby  girl  that  nestles  up  unto  this  mortal 
breast, 

After  every  voice  most  dear, 

Comes  a whisper — “ Rest  not  here.” 

And  the  rest  Thou  art  preparing,  is  it  best,  Lord, 
is  it  best  ? 


“ Lord,  a little,  little  longer  ! ” 

Sobs  the  earth  love,  growing  stronger  : 

He  will  miss  me,  and  go  mourning  through  his 
solitary  days. 

And  heaven  were  scarcely  heaven 


314 


THE  VOICE  CALLING. 


If  these  lambs  which  Thou  hast  given 
Were  to  slip  out  of  our  keeping  and  be  lost  in 
the  world’s  ways. 

Lord,  it  is  not  fear  of  dying, 

Nor  an  impious  denying 
Of  Thy  will,  which  for  evermore  on  earth,  in 
heaven,  be  done  : 

But  the  love  that  desperate  clings 
Unto  these  my  precious  things 
In  the  beauty  of  the  daylight  and  the  glory  of 
the  sun. 

Ah,  Thou  still  art  calling,  calling, 

With  a soft  voice  unappalling ; 

And  it  vibrates  in  far  circles  through  the  ever- 
lasting years ; 

When  Thou  knockest,  even  so  ! 

I will  arise  and  go. — 

What,  my  little  ones,  more  violets  ? — Nay,  be 
patient — mother  hears. 


THE  WREN’S  NEST. 


I took  the  wren’s  nest ; — 

Heaven  forgive  me ! 

Its  merry  architects  so  small 
Had  scarcely  finish’d  their  wee  hall, 
That  empty  still  and  neat  and  fair 
Hung  idly  in  the  summer  air. 

The  mossy  walls,  the  dainty  door, 
Where  Love  should  enter  and  explore, 
And  Love  sit  carolling  outside, 

And  Love  within  chirp  multiplied ; — 

I took  the  wren’s  nest. — 

Heaven  forgive  me ! 

How  many  hours  of  happy  pains 
Through  early  frosts  and  April  rains, 
How  many  songs  at  eve  and  morn 
O’er  springing  grass  and  greening  corn, 


316 


THE  WREN’S  NEST. 


What  labours  hard  through  sun  and  shade 
Before  the  pretty  house  was  made  ! 

One  little  minute,  only  one, 

And  she  ’ll  fly  back,  and  find  it — gone  ! 

I took  the  wren’s  nest : 

Bird,  forgive  me ! 

Thou  and  thy  mate,  sans  let,  sans  fear, 

Ye  have  before  you  all  the  year, 

And  every  wood  holds  nooks  for  you, 

In  which  to  sing  and  build  and  woo ; 

One  piteous  cry  of  birdish  pain — 

And  ye  ’ll  begin  your  life  again. 

And  quite  forget  the  lost,  lost  home 
In  many  a busy  home  to  come. — 

But  I ? — Your  wee  house  keep  I must 
Until  it  crumble  into  dust. 

I took  the  wren’s  nest : 

God  forgive  me ! 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


Tune — “ God  rest  ye,  merry  gentlemen.” 

God  rest  ye,  merry  gentlemen,  let  nothing  you 
dismay, 

For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was  born  on 
Christmas- day. 

The  dawn  rose  red  o’er  Bethlehem,  the  stars 
shone  through  the  grey, 

When  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was  born  on 
Christmas-day. 

God  rest  ye,  little  children ; let  nothing  you 
affright, 

For  Jesus  Christ,  your  Saviour,  was  born  this 
happy  night ; 


318 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


Along  the  hills  of  Galilee  the  white  flocks  sleep- 
ing  lay, 

When  Christ,  the  Child  of  Nazareth,  was  born 
on  Christmas- day. 

God  rest  ye,  all  good  Christians ; upon  this 
blessed  morn 

The  Lord  of  all  good  Christians  was  of  a woman 
born : 

Now  all  yonr  sorrows  He  doth  heal,  your  sins 
He  takes  away ; 

For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was  born  on 
Christmas-day. 


THE  MOTHER’S  VISITS. 


From  the  French. 

Long  years  ago  she  visited  my  chamber, 

Steps  soft  and  slow,  a taper  in  her  hand ; 

Her  fond  kiss  she  laid  upon  my  eye-lids, 

Fair  as  an  angel  from  the  unknown  land : 
Mother,  mother,  is  it  thou  I see  ? 

Mother,  mother,  watching  over  me. 

And  yesternight  I saw  her  cross  my  chamber, 
Soundless  as  light,  a palm-branch  in  her  hand ; 
Her  mild  eyes  she  bent  upon  my  anguish, 

Calm  as  an  angel  from  the  blessed  land ; 
Mother,  mother,  is  it  thou  I see  ? 

Mother,  mother,  art  thou  come  for  me? 


A GERMAN  STUDENT’S  FUNERAL 
HYMN. 


u Thou  shalt  call,  and  I will  answer  Thee : Thou  wilt  have  a 
desire  to  the  work  of  Thine  hands.” 

With  steady  march  across  the  daisy  meadow, 
And  by  the  churchyard  wall  we  go ; 

But  leave  behind,  beneath  the  linden  shadow, 
One,  who  no  more  will  rise  and  go : 

Farewell,  our  brother,  here  sleeping  in  dust, 

Till  thou  shalt  wake  again,  wake  with  the  just. 

Along  the  street  where  neighbour  nods  to  neigh- 
bour, 

Along  the  busy  street  we  throng, 

Once  more  to  laugh,  to  live  and  love  and  labour, — 
But  he  will  be  remember’d  long : 


A GERMAN  STUDENTS  FUNERAL  HYMN.  321 


Sleep  well,  our  brother,  though  sleeping  in  dust : 
Shalt,  thou  not  rise  again — rise  with  the  just  ? 

Farewell,  true  heart  and  kindly  hand,  left  lying 
Where  wave  the  linden  branches  calm ; 

JTis  his  to  live,  and  ours  to  wait  for  dying, 

We  win,  while  he  has  won,  the  palm ; 
Farewell,  our  brother  ! But  one  day,  we  trust, 
Call — he  will  answer  Thee,  God  of  the  just. 


21 


WESTWARD  HO ! 


We  should  not  sit  us  down  and  sigh, 

My  girl,  whose  brow  a fane  appears, 

Whose  stedfast  eyes  look  royally 

Backwards  and  forwards  o’er  the  years — 

The  long  long  years  of  conquer’d  time, 

The  possible  years  unwon,  that  slope 
Before  us  in  the  pale  sublime 

Of  lives  that  have  more  faith  than  hope. 

We  dare  not  sit  us  down  and  dream 
Fond  dreams,  as  idle  children  do  : 

My  forehead  owns  too  many  a seam, 

And  tears  have  worn  their  channels  through 


WESTWARD  HO  ! 


323 


Your  poor  thin  cheeks,  which  now  I take 
’Twixt  my  two  hands,  caressing.  Dear, 
A little  sunshine  for  my  sake  ! 

Although  we  he  far  on  in  the  year. 

Though  all  our  violets,  sweet ! are  dead, 
The  primrose  lost  from  fields  we  knew, 
Who  knows  what  harvests  may  be  spread 
For  reapers  brave  like  me  and  you? 

Who  knows  what  bright  October  suns 
May  light  up  distant  valleys  mild, 
Where,  as  our  pathway  downward  runs, 
We  see  Joy  meet  us  like  a child — 

Who,  sudden,  by  the  road- side  stands, 

To  kiss  the  travellers’  weary  brows, 

And  lead  them  through  the  twilight  lands 
Safely  unto  their  Father’s  house. 


324 


WESTWARD  HO  ! 


So,  we  41  not  dream,  nor  look  back,  dear 
But  march  right  on,  content  and  bold, 
To  where  our  life  sets,  heavenly  clear, 
Westward,  behind  the  hills  of  gold. 


THE  END. 


JOHN  CHILDS  AND  SON,  PRINTERS. 


* 


